Sadness of the World
by GhostOfMusic
Summary: Determined to give Christine Daae a golden voice, Erik tutors her for three months. Desire, jealousy, violence and Erik's blindness that few know of seep to the surface of their student-teacher relationship and darkens it considerably. On temp. hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or its characters. Rights belong to those who have legally acquired them. This applies to the entire story.**

Paris, 1880

"Christine...come along, Christine, they're dressing."

A small hand shook the young woman's shoulder. Girls giggled, pulling on their robes and digging their feet into slippers, shuffling towards the door.

"Come_on, _Christine..."

The young woman grunted and rolled over onto her back to greet a pair of excited blue eyes.

"What_is _it, Meg?..."

"The premier danseurs. They're dressing, hurry down the hall if you want a peek!"

Without waiting for a reply from her friend, the young Meg grabbed Christine's hand and pulled her out of bed, only giving her a moment to grab her cotton robe. The wooden floorboards groaned in protest as the two women trotted down the darkened hall, passing one of their sleepy maestros in his nightcap and gown as he returned from relieving himself in the lavatory. Meg snorted with laughter when she saw the bewilderment on his face as they rushed by him.

The girls had gathered around the door of the premier danseur's hall, and they tried to peer eagerly through the wide crack between the frame and the door itself to catch a peek of the young men. Christine rubbed her tired eyes and pressed her face to the door to look. She could see one of the dancers, stretching his finely sculpted legs on the bar. He was a handsome fellow, with thick chestnut locks that twisted into short curls, like Christine's own hair. In spite of her sleepiness, she giggled quite loudly.

"Oh, sh, sh, Christine, they'll hear--"

"Who's there?"

As if on cue, all the girls stumbled to their feet and galloped off down the hall like ponies, snorting and giggling, their slippered feet padding softly on the floor. One of the ballet mistresses had heard them and was coming their way, sure to punish them all with longer practices if they did not run back to their beds.

Unfortunately for Christine, by the time she had gotten to her feet and started to leave, the ballet mistress had already come around the corner and stood before the young woman, in a blue nightgown with a white robe wrapped tightly around her stiff form.

"Christine? What on earth are you doing out of bed this early in the morning?"

"I'm sorry Madame Giry, I just needed a drink of water, forgive me, I'll hurry back to bed--"

"A drink of water indeed. Did all the other girls in the dormitory need to fetch a drink of water along with you? I've had it with this sneaking about, trying to peek at the premier danseurs. I'll have no more of it, come with me."

Christine's heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. Her feet would be sore tonight.

She walked behind Madame Giry, her feet dragging on the floor, as they headed back to the dormitory. Her ballet mistress was taking crisp strides, as she always did when she walked, tall and confident like the dancer that she was. Christine could not help but admire her teacher for carrying herself so well even in the early hours of the morning.

"It's not wise to wander around this early in the morning, Christine," Madame Giry muttered softly, without turning her head about in the young woman's direction. The ballet mistress's candle fluttered violently as they rounded a corner and nearly went out. Christine shuddered at the thought of being lost in the darkness.

"I'm sorry, Madame," Christine whispered, "But is it so dangerous to walk about in the halls in the morning? Some of the maestros are up and about at this time, and the premier danseurs and prima ballerinas are preparing for their exercises."

To her surprise, the ballet mistress gave a smile, her thin, dry lips twisting with odd amusement.

"It can be dangerous, Christine," she said simply.

Only a moment had passed when Madame Giry suddenly stopped and lifted her candle. Christine peered down the hall and could barely make out a black shape lingering near the door to the ballet students' dormitory. Christine heard her teacher give a deep breath.

"Who is it, Madame?"

"Wait here, Christine," the ballet mistress spoke tightly.

Christine stood and watched as the older woman continued on down the hall, approaching the dark shape and standing close before it. Apparently this figment was a person, someone Madame Giry knew; she spoke very softly and intimately with the stranger for only a minute. Christine glimpsed a paper passed to Madame Giry between them before they departed, the black shape slipping around a corner. The ballet mistress motioned for Christine to approach her, tucking the paper into her flat bosom. She took Christine's hand, opened the dormitory door, and guided her inside.

"Good night, Christine. Sleep well and be sure to wake on time for class." The older woman suddenly seemed short, distracted, rushed, her brow furrowed, eyes tired. Christine opened her mouth to ask her what was wrong, but the door shut softly in her face.

* * *

Madame Giry entered the empty dance hall cautiously. The lamps were put out, but the windows were open, allowing bright white light into the space. The grand piano sat in silhouette a little to the left. A single wooden chair sat up against the wall to her right. She approached it and took a seat, her hands folding tightly in her lap.

The clock on the wall ticked and tocked loudly. Her eyes flickered to the face; almost noon. He'd be here in a moment.

The light weight of the letter tucked beneath her bodice felt heavy like lead. She could feel the warm, broken wax seal pressed lightly against her chest.

_My dear madame..._

She breathed a sigh and shut her eyes. Damn it, why was she so nervous. There was nothing to be nervous about.

_I wish to arrange a meeting with you at noon to-day, if you are not too occupied in your lessons. I want to speak to you about your student_

She picked at her nails and cleared her throat softly.

_you know the young lady I speak of_

She could see Christine's wide innocent eyes turning to look at her in fear as she had approached the premier danseur's hall.

_I wish to discuss times I could fit in singing less-_

The door opened. The ballet mistress jumped in her chair.

She saw a tall person walk in, turn and softly shut the door behind himself. His gloved hand was wrapped tightly around the doorknob.

"Erik?"

"Yes, madame."

In spite of her nervousness, Madame Giry smiled. She stood and brushed off her skirt distractedly. The man turned about, taking slow steps in her direction. He looked to be dressed for driving a carriage in bad weather; his form was draped in his funereal black cloak, his wide brimmed hat pulled down low over his face, his hands covered in soft black gloves. Oddly enough, however, it was warm and bright outdoors and the temperature indoors was pleasant.

"How are you?" Madame Giry asked quietly as he stood before her.

"Same as always," was his reply. Madame Giry had to strain her ears to hear him. He was incredibly quiet today.

"Will you take a seat?" She asked him, gesturing to the chair.

"No, thank you, I'll stand." He tilted his head to the side a little. Madame Giry wanted to bend down to see his eyes, but was far too afraid to meet his gaze. She looked at his feet instead. She saw scuffed leather boots.

"Well, madame, I take you received my note from Nadir this morning?"

"Yes, yes, I did. I read it."

He sighed softly. "Can you arrange...?"

"I believe so. I must ask her if she wants to sing," Madame Giry replied cautiously.

"She does," he said shortly.

He turned his head upwards slightly, and Madame Giry could see a part of his face. She saw a pair of thin white lips, and two pieces of black leather covering his cheeks. A mask...? Why would he be afraid to be identified? Was he afraid she would report him to the police? To the managers? To a member of the company?

"Is that a mask?" she blurted. Immediately she clapped a hand over her mouth. He would surely strike her for being so rude. Ah, she had insulted him!

She heard him snort. "Are you referring to my face? Yes, madame. It is a mask." He turned from her and headed for the piano, reaching out a hand and touching the glossy black lid. She followed after him tentatively, preparing to apologize, but he spoke.

"What time would be most convenient for you? I do not want to interfere with any of her dance lessons."

"Ah...her lessons are finished at five o' clock in the evening, Erik. Monsieur. I believe she has supper soon after and then goes to bed. Perhaps six o' clock?"

"Very well," he said, drawing circles on the piano with his finger. "Have you mentioned anything to her yet?"

"No, monsieur. Would you like me to?"

He lifted his hand and stroked his throat. "Yes...yes. Tell her that a voice instructor has expressed interest in singing lessons for her. He heard her singing with her friends and believes she has great potential. He's eager to meet her."

Madame Giry smiled a little, but she feared what might happen if Christine did not want to take singing lessons. She could not force her, after all...

"I will tell her tonight."

"Thank you."

He turned from her and quietly exited the room.

Madame Giry breathed a soft sigh of relief.

"Singing lessons!"

Madame Giry's spirits fell when she saw the horrified look on her student's face. "Yes, my dear. He heard you singing in the hall, with Meg and Nancy. He says you have great potential to become a singer. He wants to meet you."

Christine touched her rosy cheek nervously. "Oh, Madame, I cannot sing. You know that. I only sing the songs my mother and father taught me. I am no singer! Oh, please, Madame, I must refuse this kind gentleman."

Madame Giry grasped Christine's hand, desperate to convince her, even if she had to bend the truth a little. "Christine, he was very serious about your potential. He is revered as one of the greatest singing professors in Paris. Just think, Christine, he could make you a prima donna here at the Opera. Isn't that a lovely thought?"

Christine's blue eyes were filled with worry. "Yes, madame, it is lovely, but...I'm afraid I don't have the voice or the talent. I could not possibly learn..."

"You must at least meet him. He wants to introduce himself to you tomorrow night. He will teach you what you don't know, Christine. Come, there's nothing to be afraid of."

The young woman sighed, and nodded her lovely head. "All right, madame. I will meet him tomorrow. But no promises."

"No promises," Madame Giry repeated, thrilled that she had succeeded thus far. Perhaps her mind would change once she met him.

* * *

"Come Christine, hurry. It's already five minutes till the hour. Hurry!

"I'm trying, Madame," Christine whined, shoving several more pins into her blond hair. "I must at least look presentable!"

"He won't mind," Madame Giry said absently as she toyed with her own hair in the mirror behind Christine. "Now come...we must leave."

The two women left the dormitory and walked briskly down the hall, Madame Giry's stiff skirts rustling loudly and Christine's feet padding softly. The dance mistress prayed that she would not be scolded for being late to the meeting. She was learning quickly that Erik had a short fused temper if his schedule became disturbed by tardiness and forgetfulness. Hopefully with Christine in the room, he would not become angry.

They reached the dance hall just as the clock inside chimed six o' clock. They entered, Madame Giry shut the door behind her, and they both turned about.

The dance hall was softly lit now, and two chairs were placed in the center of the room. Erik was standing by one of them, his hand placed upon the back.

"Good evening," he said pleasantly.

"Good evening, monsieur," the two women said in unison.

"Have a seat, Mademoiselle."

Madame Giry gently motioned to the other chair and Christine, looking suddenly nervous, obeyed and sat down in the chair. Erik seated himself across from her, leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees and folding his hands. Madame Giry noticed that he was not wearing his gloves. His hands were pale and thin.

Erik suddenly seemed to remember that he was in the presence of a young lady, as he took off his hat and laid it beneath his chair. His hair was thick and black, combed back on his head and well groomed. His face was indeed covered in a black leather mask that extended all the way to his burnsides and down to the sides of his chin. Madame Giry could not help but stare. She had never seen this much of him before.

"I appreciate your visit with me, Mademoiselle," he spoke softly to Christine. He extended his hand to her. "My name is Erik."

"Christine Daae, monsieur," the young woman replied, giving him her hand. He raised it to his lips but did not kiss it.

"Pleased to meet your acquaintance. I assume you know why I asked you here?"

Christine took her hand back gently and toyed with her lace handkerchief. "Madame told me that you wished to give me singing lessons."

"That's right," he said softly. For the first time, Madame Giry saw him smile. It was thin and bloodless, she could not see his teeth. "I happened to hear you in the halls, singing with your two friends. You have a magnificent voice."

"Oh, no, monsieur. My voice is terrible. I cannot sing," Christine countered hurriedly.

"Of course you can. Don't say that," Erik with a sternness that made Madame Giry feel cold. "Your voice is only untrained. I'm offering to train it."

Christine sighed. "I don't want to trouble you, monsieur...I would hate to waste your time."

"It wouldn't be wasting my time. Trust me. Why don't I start giving you lessons, and if you are unhappy we can stop. Would you like that?"

"I suppose..."

"How old are you, Christine?"

"I'm twenty."

Erik smiled again. "How did you learn to sing?"

Christine shrugged her delicate shoulders. "My mother and father were very musical, and they sang songs with me very often. Every day. I only sing the songs they taught me."

"They taught you well," Erik murmured softly. An awkward silence fell in the room.

Erik spoke again. "For the time being, let's say that I meet you again next week in this hall, at this time, for our first lesson. If you do not like it, we can stop. I do believe you gave outstanding potential."

Christine hesitated a moment. "Very well, monsieur. But I'm warning you, it might be very painful on your ears."

Erik chortled. "Don't worry about that."

Madame Giry came forward and collected Christine as she bid goodnight to Erik. The dance mistress turned a little to glance at Erik as they left the room, and she was greeted by the most frightening pair of eyes she had ever seen. Bright, green, and unblinking, they stared at her as she shut the door, burning in her vision as she walked down the hall, and continued to hover before her that night as she attempted to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews!**

Christine sat silently in her chair, glancing over the sheet music her maestro had just handed her. The notes looked somewhat familiar, but she was not very skilled in reading them, and was embarrassed to admit it. She looked up at Erik, nervous and lost.

"What's the matter?" He asked.

"I'm not very good at reading music, monsieur. I'm sorry."

He smiled gently beneath his hat while his eyes stared at her. "That's all right. I will play the song for you."

Christine watched as Erik walked over to the piano, taking off his hat and setting it on the lid. He removed his cloak and set it down next to the hat. He looked fit to attend a dance, wearing an evening coat with a maroon dress shirt. Still, though, he wore that strange leather mask on his face. It bothered Christine a little, but she had never made a mention of it so far.

"Come, Christine."

She obediently stood and approached the teacher. He took the sheet music from her and set it before him on the piano.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, monsieur."

He started to play the simple tune, slowly, and Christine listened carefully. Now that she was hearing the music, she could more easily imprint the song in her head and remember each note. It was easier for her to learn this way, far easier than attempting to read the sheet music.

"Can you sing it now?" Erik asked her as he finished playing.

"Yes, monsieur. I think so."

Erik played the tune again, and this time Christine sang. She remembered each note, though she stumbled a little on the higher ones, but for once she actually thought she had done well. Erik seemed to think so too, because he was smiling as he finished the tune and turned to her.

"Do you have much trouble reaching those notes?" he asked her.

"Not most of the time, monsieur. I think it would help if I warmed up my voice a little."

"Yes, I think so too. Come, would you like to practice on the stage? After all, it will be yours one day. Come along." He picked up his cloak and put it around his shoulders again.

He suddenly seemed excited, eager to take her to the stage to practice. His last comment made Christine grimace, but she followed him any way, out the door into the hall. He took out a large ring of keys from his pocket and locked the door. Christine, though she was very curious, did not ask how he managed to acquire those keys. She walked after him, watching his heels and noticing the way he kept his hand lightly brushing the wall beside him.

"Do you like to be on stage, Christine? Do you like being before an audience?"

She shrugged. "I do enjoy it...but I become so nervous at times, monsieur. Sometimes I fear that I may be sick and cannot go on."

He nodded gently. "That is natural, of course you may feel nervous performing before an audience. It will take time to become accustomed to the stage."

As she followed her maestro downstairs, she could not help but wonder if he had experience on the stage before. He seemed to have some knowledge of what it felt like to perform on stage. Perhaps he had been an opera singer in past years; he was an older man, after all, she could tell by the deepness of his voice and the way he walked. She made a mental note to ask him later about his experience.

"Here we are," he announced as they arrived at the black door Christine knew well. He once again took out his ring of keys and unlocked the door. Immediately Christine recognized the familiar musty scent of the stage; old lumber and sawdust, wood varnish, a faint trace of laundered costumes and makeup powder. She sighed deeply.

The floorboards groaned beneath their feet. It was dark save for some late afternoon light filtering through small windows near the ceiling. Christine shivered though it was warm; the heavy presence of the stage never failed to effect her. She watched her teacher's hand float over the nearby crates and pieces of machinery, touching everything beside him, stroking. His behavior was eerily fascinating. She bit her tongue so her damned curiosity would not prompt her to ask a rude question.

"Here we are." He slipped through the wings and onto the darkened stage. At this time there was no one in the area, and so it was completely silent, warm and dimly lit by a few lamps in the house and a ghost light sitting on the stage. Christine stopped as Erik continued towards the ghost light and reached out his hand and touched it gently.

She heard him take a deep breath.

"I have not been on this stage for quite a while," he whispered softly.

"Maestro?" Christine said tentatively.

He turned towards her. She saw his bright green eyes glowing dimly in the ghost light and she shivered again.

"Yes, mademoiselle. Would you like to warm up your voice? Try your scales."

Christine nodded hesitantly, feeling foolish. Though there was no audience, just the teacher, she still felt incredibly nervous. She clasped her hands and tightened them beneath her breasts as she had seen the prima donnas do a hundred times. She opened her mouth, took a breath, but she could not force her voice from her throat. She tried again but she only managed an embarrassing grunt.

"Is something wrong?" Erik asked her, still standing beside the ghost light with his hand wrapped around the pole.

Christine sighed, defeated and dropped her hands. "I'm terribly sorry, monsieur. I cannot make myself sing on this stage, I feel so nervous."

He stood for a moment. He looked like he was thinking. He removed his hand from the ghost light and cracked the joints in his wrist and knuckles. Christine blinked expectantly at him.

"You're nervous," he said softly, as if he were confirming the statement to himself. He walked a small distance from the ghost light, taking small, calculated steps.

"When you are nervous before a dance...before you make your entrance...what do you do?"

Christine frowned. She hated the plummeting feeling she got in her stomach before she entered on stage. "Sometimes I dance nervous. It is difficult. I feel tense and ill. But other times I am able to calm myself beforehand if I warm up my legs, my body."

"Then warm up," he said. "Before you warm up your voice, warm up your body."

"But... monsieur," she stumbled, feeling her face grow hot. "Forgive me, but I don't think I can warm up with you watching me."

At first Erik seemed surprised. He blinked and smirked a little. "Would you prefer me to go away?"

"Oh no, no, don't go away...but...if you don't mind, it's terribly rude of me...but could you face away from me, stage right?"

His smile had disappeared and it was impossible to see his facial expression behind the mask. Christine began to feel terrible. "I'm sorry, monsieur, never mind--"

"No. I won't watch you."

He turned away from her slowly to face stage right. Christine sighed.

She knelt down gently on the stage and shut her eyes. She breathed deep, filling her lungs with musty air and breathing it out through her nose. She arched her arms above her head and clasped her hands, then brought her arms down again to rest at her sides. She bent her neck and rotated it slowly in a circle. She breathed again.

A hand touched her shoulder.

Her breath caught briefly but she continued to breathe. A second hand came to rest upon her other shoulder. She could feel their weight. They gently and slowly pulled upwards to cradle her face, tilting it upwards, exposing her thin, pale throat.

Someone was breathing in her ear...

Christine opened her eyes immediately. There were no hands upon her face. There was no breath against her ear. She whipped her head about and saw Erik still standing obediently stage right, facing away from her. She suddenly became aware that she was out of breath and inhaling quite noisily.

Erik turned his head to face her. "Is everything all right?"

She felt her face. It was warm. "Yes...yes, monsieur. I suddenly feel a little ill...may I rest for tonight, and perhaps try again tomorrow?"

He turned around completely. "Yes. I am sorry you are not well...go and rest, mademoiselle."

"Thank you, monsieur."

She stood and walked briskly out of the theatre. When she turned back to catch one last glance of her teacher, he was gone.

Christine lay alone in bed that night, listening to the other girls whispering like gossiping old women. From the sound of it, one of the older dancers had had quite an exciting experience with a stagehand backstage and was describing it in graphic detail while the other girls gasped and giggled. Christine peered out from behind her covers and saw the older girl slapping her rear quite loudly. Christine could not help but choke with suppressed laughter.

She rolled over and sighed, her smile fading. She was often painfully aware of her sexual inexperience when the girls talked about their men. They had had many lovers--or so they said--but Christine had never had a lover before. She often found herself praying to God to give her a good man who would love her and offer his hand in marriage to her. Even as a small girl she dreamed of becoming a little bride with a pretty train and a bouquet of white roses and baby's breath.

Christine shuddered when she remembered the hands on her face. For a moment then, she had thought they were _Erik's _hands...her good teacher's hands that had been touching her! But when she had turned to look, he was still standing with his back to her...it had only been her imagination.

_I wish it had been his hands._

'No, Christine,' she chided herself firmly, pinching her thigh. 'You are thinking like a whore. Like the girls. No.'

She buried her face in her pillow and tried to sleep.

* * *

"Thank you for the stew, Nadir. It was quite good."

Nadir lifted his eyes. His friend had finished the last of his supper and was sitting back in his chair.

"Ah...you're welcome, Erik."

Erik was smiling. Nadir felt uneasy.

"What's the matter with you? Did you kill someone?"

Erik snorted and opened his arms wide. "I, Nadir? I? No, of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?"

Nadir chose not to respond to this and gathered up the dishes at the table. He glanced at Erik and saw him lazily running his hand through his hair.

"For God's sake, Erik. Are you drunk?"

"No!" he laughed. "If you must know, I have a voice student."

Nadir nearly dropped his empty teacup. His poor heart skipped several beats and he slammed his hand upon his chest to calm it. "A voice student!"

"Yes," Erik replied, obviously swelling with pride. "I am going to teach her to sing."

"Is she young?" Nadir asked him, his shock slowly shifting into suspicion.

"Yes."

"Is she willing?"

"She seems to be."

"Is she pretty?"

Erik sighed. His grin faded. "I don't know."

"You haven't..." Nadir hesitated.

"No."

Nadir nodded gently, and took the dishes to the kitchen. His hand shook slightly as he pumped the water into the sink. _Erik has a student..._

The news in and of itself was not exactly bad. He was happy for Erik, but at the same time, he was fearful...Erik did not like to mingle with people who lived above. To venture up there so often was risky, and if he was somehow..._attracted..._ to this young woman, he could become easily distracted.

As he finished washing the dishes and set them back in their cupboards, he blew out the lanterns and headed for bed, but he stopped at Erik's bedroom door first. His friend was standing with his back to him, turned towards the window with its panes painted black.

"Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Nadir."

The glass eyes in the velvet box on Erik's nightstand stared at him. Nadir grew cold and shut the door gently.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews, again:)**

* * *

Madame Giry knocked gently on the open bedroom door, craning her neck into the room to see one of her students sitting alone on her bed. The slumped figure was silhouetted against the gray, early morning light filtering through the dormitory window. The ballet mistress recognized the limp curls and the thin, sloping shoulders of young Miss Daae.

"Christine?"

The young woman raised her head and turned. "Oh...good morning, Madame."

Madame Giry approached her student's bed slowly and sat down beside her. Christine was still dressed in her plain white nightgown, holding her prayer book in her lap. It appeared as though she had just woken up, what with her puffy eyes and the sleep lines indented into her face.

"Are you all right?" Madame Giry asked, placing her arm around her pupil's shoulders. Christine nodded, gritting her teeth as she held back a strong yawn.

"Yes, madame. You must forgive me, I did not sleep well, and I only woke up a moment ago." She tilted her head and shifted her gray eyes towards the window. Madame Giry was slightly unnerved to see uncertainty in her expression; her Christine, her gentle, carefree student, had never looked so confused before.

"I must speak with the gentleman today," Christine announced suddenly, her eyes flicking to her instructor. "The teacher, Erik."

"Oh," Madame Giry, said, feeling a new hope rise in her chest. "Do you want to continue the lessons?"

Christine took a deep breath. "Yes."

Madame Giry stroked the young woman's head excitedly and reached down to squeeze her hand. "Oh, my dear. He'll be very pleased, he thinks you have so much potential, you know...I shall tell him today. Thank you, Christine."

The ballet instructor left the dormitory after prodding Christine to get dressed and ready for breakfast and lessons. She felt unusually light on her feet as she shut the door and strode off down the hall. Ah, Erik would be pleased...she could not wait for the moment she would see his smile as she told him. God, she felt like a child. Erik was still a stranger to her, but...she had to admit to herself, she_fancied _him a bit, foolish though it was...

Today she had a reason to speak to him, if only for a minute. The very thought made her heart flutter in anticipation. Christine's worried eyes began to fade from her mind, and in its place, Erik's black mask and thin-lipped smile hovered before her.

* * *

"Damn," Nadir barked as he broke another match. He crushed the splintered stick in his hand and tossed it into the icy hearth. "God, I'll freeze myself to death at this rate."

He heard Erik chortling from his armchair, which did not do anything to brighten his mood. He turned and cast his lounging friend an intensely irritated glare. "You start the fire, then," he grumbled, setting the wooden matchbox on the arm of Erik's chair. Taking a seat on the deep red canapé, he pulled his soft robe tighter around him. Erik slipped his fingers inside the matchbox, drew out a match and struck it against the sole of his shoe. He grinned when it sizzled and lit up.

He handed the burning match to Nadir, who rushed to set the wood aflame before the match burned down to his fingers. Puffing furiously and fanning the small fire with his hand, the kindling finally caught fire and began to grow. Nadir gave a satisfied sigh and went back to sit on the canapé. He removed his pipe from his pocket and began to pack it on the end table beside him, while casting a glance at Erik. His friend had folded his hands and had turned his head in the direction of the crackling fire.

"How have your lessons been progressing?" Nadir asked hesitantly. He really hadn't been willing to discuss the matter with him, but he knew that being a teacher excited Erik and that he was eager to speak of it.

Erik shrugged slightly. "We have not met for several days. Her ballet instructor says she is not feeling well." He sighed, evidently disappointed.

Nadir frowned. "That's unfortunate, I'm sorry. How did your first lesson go?"

Shaking his head a little, Erik crossed his legs. He looked somewhat uncomfortable all of a sudden. "She seemed very nervous. She told me she could not sing if I was looking at her, so I turned away, but she announced that she felt unwell and wanted to leave." He turned his head to Nadir. "Would you like me to light your pipe?"

"If you don't mind," Nadir replied with a smile. Erik removed another match from the matchbox and took Nadir's pipe from his hand. Again he struck the match against the sole of his shoe, waited for the head to burn, and dipped it inside the bowl of the pipe, feeling the edges with the tips of his fingers. He gave the lit pipe back to Nadir, who puffed deeply.

"Thank you. I'm sorry your lesson didn't go as you expected...ah, she will get better and return. Perhaps she is shy around strangers, Erik. You mustn't worry yourself to death about it."

Erik nodded and said nothing, his false eyes staring blankly at the carpet.

Nadir regarded his friend with a secret pity. It was obvious that Erik genuinely desired to have some sort of relationship with this woman-only a friendship, Nadir prayed-but it was highly unlikely to happen. Nadir had not met the girl but from what Erik had told him, she was young, attractive, and delicate. Erik was an eccentric and intimidating man, and along with his other glaring flaws-the mask hiding his destroyed face, his missing eyes-it was no wonder the poor girl was nervous around him.

"Are you going to tell her about your blindness, Erik?"

Erik shook his head. "Unless she asks, I won't tell her."

"Why not?"

His friend shrugged again. "I don't find it necessary to point it out to her...after all, it does not hinder my ability to teach her and I function well without my sight. I see no reason to tell her."

Taking another long draw on his pipe, Nadir did not voice his opinion on the matter, but he did fear what might happen when and if the young woman discovered that Erik had false eyes. Coupled with the black mask he wore, this fact might easily frighten his student into canceling her lessons. That was a disappointment Nadir did not want his friend to suffer.

"What is her name?" he asked Erik instead, changing the subject slightly.

His friend's lips rose in an unrestrained smile. "Christine."

"Ah... Christine, what a lovely European name," Nadir replied cheerfully. Erik chuckled and nodded in agreement.

"Yes, it is a lovely name. She possesses a lovely voice to match it."

The fire had finally begun to roar and warm the room. Nadir relaxed and settled back into the canapé, lazily crossing his legs and shutting his eyes. He took slow, deep puffs from his pipe. For several long minutes there was only a soft, warm silence resting in the room, interrupted only by the sparking fire.

"Did you fetch my mail, Nadir?" Erik asked suddenly, startling Nadir a little, who opened his eyes and grunted.

"Yes, it's on the dining room table. You have one letter." Erik stood and went to retrieve his mail. Nadir heard him ripping open the envelope, and his soft footsteps as he returned to give him the letter to read. Nadir flipped open the paper and read:

"_'Monsieur, I wish to speak with you tonight concerning Christine's singing lessons. I will be in the rehearsal hall at half past ten. Mme. Giry.'" _He looked up at Erik, who had suddenly become very quiet and still. He was nervous.

"She's decided," he stuttered, quickly taking out his pocket watch and feeling the hands. His fingers were trembling. "It's already five minutes past ten...I must leave. I will see you afterwards, Nadir."

"Good luck," Nadir wished his anxious friend as Erik seized his cloak and hat and disappeared through the door.

* * *

The ballet mistress sat quietly in the rehearsal hall in her chair, her handkerchief crumpled and damp with sweat in her hands. Christine sat beside her in a second chair, absently playing with a strand of her hair and staring at her swinging, slippered feet. Neither of them had spoken a word since they had entered the room. The grandfather clock ticked loudly on the other side of the room.

The doorknob turned. Christine raised her head. Madame Giry inhaled sharply and stood up.

Erik's imposing figure slipped quietly into the room, his white bony hand protruding from his sleeve, gripping the doorknob. He shut the door and approached the two women. Madame Giry's heart pounded.

"Good morning," Erik said as he walked slowly.

"Good morning," Madame Giry and Christine replied.

"You wanted to speak with me about Christine's lessons?" Erik removed his hat, revealing the thick dark hair that Madame Giry suddenly found very attractive. She swallowed.

"Yes. In fact...here, Christine would like to tell you." Losing her bravery, she motioned for Christine to stand. The young woman did so, albeit sullenly and reluctantly.

Erik smiled. "Ah...Mademoiselle Daae. You have something to tell me?"

Christine nodded, lowering her eyes from his masked face. "Yes, monsieur. I wish to continue the lessons."

The strange gentleman's lips rose higher in a pleased grin and he gave a quiet sigh. He sounded relieved. "That is excellent news, mademoiselle. We can have another lesson this evening if you'd like. Would you like that?"

Christine nodded again, her curly blond locks bouncing. "Yes, monsieur."

Erik bowed his head in approval, twirling his hat slightly in his hands. His eyes shifted briefly in Madame Giry's direction. "Madame, would you mind if I had a quick word with Mademoiselle alone? It will only take a moment of her time."

The ballet instructor was surprised but she obliged, giving Erik a tight smile before she turned and left the room. Erik waited for the door to snap shut before he turned to his student.

He could not see her, of course, but he could hear her breathing and feel her presence before him. She was still standing.

"Sit," he said. The chair feet groaned as she sat down.

Regarding her with his false eyes, Erik took a deep breath to calm himself before he spoke to her. He crushed the soft brim of his hat in his hands.

"Christine, before we begin our lessons officially, there are some terms and conditions I wish to set with you. The first and most important is that our meetings and our lessons be kept completely secret. I am highly sought after as a voice instructor in this opera house, and if word were to get out that I was teaching you, I would be flooded with requests and I would be forced to cancel your lessons. Do not speak of me or my name to the other students in your dormitory."

Erik took another breath. Christine had not said anything as of yet.

"Secondly, I must speak with you about my appearance. Do you see this mask I wear?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"You are not allowed to inquire about it. I will not answer your questions about it and I only ask that you respect my privacy."

He knelt down slowly on the floor before her. Her breathing had quickened, but she had not moved from her chair. God, he could smell her soft skin and her dress. He was so close...if only he could reach out his hand and touch that skin...touch her face so he would know what she looked like...

Erik lifted his face to stare at her. "Mademoiselle, I look very forward to teaching you. It has been one of my greatest _desires..._for so long...to train your voice..."

He needed to touch some part of her. The ache was growing stronger. He lifted a gently shaking hand to her, palm facing upwards. "Give me your hand."

At last, he felt her small hand rest timidly in his large hand. He enclosed it with his fingers, squeezing gently. Ah, it was so delicate, so beautiful! Fighting back an insane urge to press his lips to her hand, he released it slowly and drew back.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle. Until tonight, then."

"Until tonight, monsieur. Thank you," came Christine's wavering voice.

Erik quickly pressed his hat onto his head and made a swift exit, leaving his new student sitting alone in the room with the ticking clock.

Christine didn't know what to think. All of a sudden, her mind was flooded with new emotions she did not recognize. She was frightened, yet she was calmed; she was very warm, but she was also very cold. The way her teacher's eyes had burned into her face had taken her aback, caused a hot flush to rise in her chest and face, but at the same time, her heart had grown icy and dark with fear. He was intimidating to her, with his black mask and forceful stare, but...she was also_drawn_...in some twisted fashion...to his frightening presence. When he had taken her hand, she had suddenly felt an urge to touch him, as well...to touch his hair, or his fingers, or even the hard glossy surface of that strange mask. He was such a strong curiosity to her that she found it hard to resist that urge.

Confused by her new feelings, Christine tried to gather herself and ran from the room, feeling her teacher's invisible eyes boring into the back of her head.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks again to the readers and reviewers! I try to respond to reviews in an email so I can respond to questions/suggestions/comments.**

Nadir jumped in his seat as the carriage rocked sharply back and forth in the howling wind. The rain rattled loudly on the small window next to his head. He grabbed his hat, though it was not falling off his head, and blinked through sleepy eyes, trying to regain his bearings. Good God, where had this storm come from? Only half an hour ago it had been dry and calm...chilly and overcast, yes, but peaceful.

Erik remained still on the seat across from him, shrouded in his gigantic winter cloak, with his hands folded and his head resting back against the upholstered seat. He'd closed his eyes peacefully despite the horrendous noise. Nadir knew Erik to be fond of rain; he had always enjoyed the loudness of it and delighted in the thunder.

Nadir remembered one horrible storm in Persia, when the two of them had sitting in a flimsy tent near the outskirts of Mazanderan. Nadir preferred to stay inside with a blanket wrapped around himself, but Erik had crawled outside and let himself get soaked. He'd ran about in the wet sand, tossing up scoops of it into the air with his hands, and letting his mouth hang open to catch the drops. He'd screamed when he heard thunder, throwing the sand at the sky and clutching at his hair like a madman. Nadir had been fascinated and saddened by the bizarre display. Because of the removal of his eyes, Erik's other senses were growing more sensitive, and they were being assaulted all at once in this thunderstorm. He had seemed so desperate in that moment; grabbing at the sand to feel the grains, lifting it to his face to smell it, tasting the rain, and listening to the thunder and his own voice screaming back.

Sighing deeply from within his chest, Nadir glanced out the window and could just barely make out the little bistro coming into his view. The driver slowed and announced their arrival. Nadir could barely hear him. He fished about in his pocket for the driver's payment and handed Erik his gold-topped cane. Exiting the carriage first, he then turned about to help Erik out, then gave the soaking wet driver his money.

"It's very cold," Erik said to Nadir, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain as the two of them made their way to the door, Erik subtly sweeping his cane back and forth. Nadir was very thankful for the warmth that greeted them as they entered the small establishment.

Nadir had always assured Erik that this was an ideal place to eat in public, because no one here gave a damn about his friend's mask if they should happen to catch a glimpse of it. The customers here were most often elderly and could barely see let alone hear, anyway, and the bistro was rarely crowded. Nadir and Erik took a table in the corner, and a tired, white-haired man approached and handed them menus with trembling hands. Erik set his down on the tabletop and waited for Nadir to read off the selection.

The two men had been friends for so long that Nadir knew what Erik liked to eat. Unfortunately, he did not have a hearty appetite and so he was very gaunt and thin, which made Nadir worry for his health. He often encouraged Erik to eat as much as his stomach would allow, but Erik always claimed that his stomach was very small and so he could not eat a large portion.

"Would you like duck?" he asked Erik, who was tilting his head slightly towards the wall, listening to the rain pounding on the other side. "Confit de canard. I don't believe it is too large a portion for you. I will finish what you cannot eat."

Erik nodded soundlessly, sliding his hand across the tabletop until he reached the little glass vase that sat to his right. He stroked the cheaply made glass briefly with the tip of his finger.

Nadir watched him with a slight feeling of worry. Erik had been behaving very strangely in the past week. Usually loud and unappreciative, he had suddenly fallen into silence and could often be seen gazing distractedly at the wall or the floor. He tapped his foot and bit at his fingernails, nervous habits that Nadir had not observed for quite some time.

"What are you thinking about?" Nadir tried, setting down his menu. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

Erik shook his head. "I don't know. I'm very tired."

Nadir decided to take a risk. "How have your lessons been?"

His friend opened his mouth and took a deep breath, as if he had suddenly remembered something very important. "Very good," he said in a forced tone. Suddenly becoming anxious, Erik pulled off his left glove and began to manipulate it on the table, pulling at the fingers.

"Nadir...are there any customers round..." he breathed.

Nadir glanced to his right and over his shoulder. "No, Erik." His own heart was pounding, but he wasn't sure why.

Erik twisted his glove, biting his lip. The poor man looked like he was going to have an attack. "Nadir, I think I'm in love."

At first, Nadir's mind spun with questions about the identity of the woman, but as he remembered how little Erik left the Opera, Christine Daae's name began to float to the surface of his mind. He opened his mouth, and then shut it quickly. _Mademoiselle Daae...? She is incredibly young for him, far too young..._

"In love?" Nadir finally said quietly, holding back a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue. "How wonderful, Erik...may I ask with whom are you in love?"

Erik's anxiety only seemed to worsen. He lifted a hand and nervously patted his hair. "You're going to hate me, Nadir, but I have feelings for Christine Daae."

Nadir's heart sank. He wondered if the girl knew about Erik's affections. "Ah...your student? Didn't you tell me that you do not know what she looks like?"

"I don't need to see her to have feelings for her," Erik replied gruffly. "Her voice has enslaved my soul. If you heard her, you would know, Nadir. She is..." he suddenly leaned back in his chair with his hand on the back of his head, at a loss for words, "...beautiful...perfection itself. When she speaks to me, and _sings_for me, I feel as though I could die from bliss. I cannot wait until our next lesson to meet with her again."

He covered his mask with his hand, fighting a losing battle with his composure. Nadir felt cold. This was far more serious than he had expected. Erik was tearing out his heart and in the process of giving it to this young, naïve girl. If something went wrong-if she rejected him-he did not know how Erik would react.

"Has she expressed feelings for you, Erik?" Nadir asked him softly, leaning forward in his chair.

Erik gave a shuddering breath. "No. I am under the impression that she is not fond of me. I think she is afraid of me."

"She cannot be afraid of you, Erik. Otherwise, she would not have agreed to take lessons from you."

"She may not have known any better. Oh, God, I'm a bastard...I don't know what to do, Nadir."

Nadir could only feel sympathy and worry for his friend. Erik was so deeply troubled by these new, raw emotions eating him alive, and he, his companion, did not know how to comfort him.

"Perhaps it is only an infatuation. She may fade from your affections in time," he offered.

Erik's reaction frightened him. His head snapped up, he leaned forward sharply and his hands curled into fists on the table. "It is_not..._an infatuation, Nadir."

Nadir knew he should not push that topic any further. Erik's wild, unpredictable anger was something he did not want to experience ever again, and it would be extremely unwise to trigger it.

Erik seemed to have been distressed to the point of silence; he sat back in his chair, directing his glass eyes to the table, and did not speak any more of Christine.

* * *

Madame Giry watched her student groom her hair in the mirror. The young girl's gray eyes were clouded, tired. Her body was slumped, her hand limp as it dragged the brush through her blond locks. Her face was very white and her lips were so pale.

Christine was changed, and Madame Giry did not understand why.

She had asked her before, trying to find why she looked so worried and tired, but Christine always shook her head and only said that she had not been sleeping well. Madame Giry knew it was something more.

Checking the clock in the corner, Madame Giry motioned for Christine that it was time to leave for her leseson. Her student obediently stood, put on her little black shoes, and walked into the hallway with her teacher.

When the two of them reached the rehearsal room, they opened the door to see that it was pitch black, save for a small amount of blue moonlight streaming through the window. A large and familiar figure stood before it, completely still.

"Madame, Mademoiselle, come in."

Madame Giry's heart fluttered as she led Christine into the room. His voice chilled her bones, but there was no other voice she desired to hear more than his. She was so strongly focused on his frame on the other side of the room that she disregarded the darkness and walked into the piano.

"Be careful. I've darkened the room for one of Christine's exercises."

Flushing, Madame Giry brushed her skirts, thanking God that Erik could not see her in this darkness.

Erik turned around and waited for a few moments before announcing, "I wish to be with Mademoiselle now. Good evening, Madame." The ballet mistress reluctantly left at his order, shutting the door behind her quietly.

Christine breathed. Her eyes were wide, trying to see through the dark. She saw Erik's dark figure shift to the left, leaving the window, and he disappeared.

_Where is he?_

For once, she was terrified of her maestro. She could not see him, she could not hear him. He could be right beside her...he could be watching her from her right, or her left, or behind her, or...directly in front of her...

Christine blindly reached out and felt a body. Her heart leapt and her skin broke out in gooseflesh. She felt smooth fabric, and a pocket, and a neat line of several buttons.

"Erik?"

A cold hand enclosed hers and pressed it down. She felt a beating heart, pounding rapidly.

"What are you--"

His fingers suddenly pressed themselves over her lips and she suddenly became aware of his mouth against her ear. She instinctively grabbed his hand, trying to pull it away.

...And suddenly...the most heavenly sound came from that mouth...

Christine did not know what it was, at first. She froze in her position, trembling, pale, and terrified as she slowly realized that he was_singing_.

_It cannot be singing,_ she reasoned numbly, her cold flesh slowly growing warm. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. Every foreign word he sang was like gold. His voice was deep, rich, soft and incredibly satisfying.

Unbeknownst to her, Christine's frail body had weakened and Erik guided it to the chair by the piano, not removing his mouth from her ear. His trembling hand had moved from her lips and was covering her face completely, desperate to feel her features but too terrified to move his fingers. He could feel her small nose, her large, fluttering eyes beneath her lids, and her soft parted lips, but he could not bring himself explore these features in detail without her consent.

_You've gone mad, Erik, stop this now, _his heart feebly tried to reason, but he was so overwhelmed by her that he did not think to listen.

He stopped singing, breathing heavily, his face sweating beneath his mask.

"Christine," he whispered in her ear. She turned towards him, he could feel her breathing against his mouth. God, he was close to her, far too close.

"You will stay with me... I shall make you a _prima donna _in this theatre...and you will be my own. The crowds shall adore you, but _I will have created you_... "

He felt drunk with love. He took her arms and draped them around his shoulders; a puppet hugging its master. She had since fainted, but her face rested against his mask, with her open mouth pressed to his neck in what he felt as an unconscious kiss.

"I love you, Christine."

In the darkened doorway on the other side of the room, Nadir's face was pressed to the slightly open door, his eyes wide with horror.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you once more for the reviews! I didn't think this story would be so interesting, but apparently there are several of you enjoying it! :)**

As the months drew on, the city grew cold and the first week of December arrived, and with it came enormous gray clouds, a biting cold, and even a thin blanket of snow. The Parisians stayed shut in their flats and their houses, the poor huddled around a cold spitting flame and the rich basking in the warmth of their roaring fireplaces. The vendors on the street had been forced to close for the winter, drawing back into their homes and tucking all of their wares away. Paris was peaceful.

The Opera, meanwhile, was enjoying a very successful season and the company was waiting in excited anticipation for the winter ball. This occasion was a private party limited only to the members of the company and their partners, and was held to celebrate the last performance of the current production before the New Year. Those who had attended the previous year's party reminisced quite often about how excellent the wine had been, or how clumsy their dancing partner was, and the one hilarious moment when Madame So-and-So became so intoxicated she had fallen asleep on the floor with her face in a plate of Bredela.

Christine, still quite new to the Opera, had never attended this party, or any occasion here, and was forced to listen to her fellow ballet students chatter endlessly about the dresses they were going to wear, the flowers and jewelry they would put in their hair, and, more importantly, the men they would be accompanied with.

This problem of having a partner was one problem that Christine did not know how to solve. She did not want to arrive at the party alone and subject herself to jokes or taunting looks. Several times she had considered not even attending the ball, but she knew that Madame Giry would not be pleased with her for being cowardly and afraid.

She had a very timid, hesitant mind to ask Erik to accompany her, but she had already rejected the idea many times. It would be so improper, so inappropriate to ask her maestro to be her partner out of sheer desperation. He might even be embarrassed to be asked such a thing. She did not want to upset him. Besides, she did not know if he already had a wife or a female friend; she didn't even know if he was attending the party at all. Unfortunately, the date of the ball was drawing closer, and Christine had to come to a final decision.

Christine had also become very shy around Erik. Some time ago, she had had a very vivid and embarrassing dream that involved Erik touching her mouth with his hand and whispering strange, unintelligible words into her ear. She had never mentioned it to him, of course, but just the memory of that dream made her cheeks flush, considering the fact that it had in fact been arousing for her.

She sat on her bed the dormitory, lacing up her ballet slippers, her stomach full of butterflies. Due to meet with her maestro for her lesson in a few minutes, she was fighting with herself whether or not to ask him about the ball. She feared that he might laugh at her invitation or turn her down with a stern shake of his head.

_...but if he accepts?_ She began to feel her face grow warm and she began to worry that she was coming down with a fever.

* * *

Erik could hear the snowflakes patting against the windowpane. Every minute or so, the wind would howl more fiercely and cause hundreds of flakes and frozen rain to hammer against the wall in a small blizzard. Erik lifted his hand and touched the freezing glass. It must be absolutely horrid outside.

The second door on the opposite wall opened with a slight creak. For a few tense moments, Erik thought someone had walked in on him and adrenaline rushed through his veins, but when he recognized Nadir's footsteps and relaxed.

"You startled me," he accused his friend, turning back to the window.

"I'm sorry," Nadir grunted, approaching Erik's side slowly, with his hands behind his back. "Do you have a lesson today?"

Erik nodded without turning to face him. "Yes, she should be here in five minutes."

He heard Nadir give a deep sigh that carried a hint of disapproval, which annoyed Erik. As of late, Nadir had been vehemently bombarding him with his opinions on the voice lessons. _'She is far too young, Erik...you're old enough to be her father...you must not become too close to her...' _He had been scolding him as if he was his father and he had started to get on Erik's nerves. More often he found himself shut up in his own room away from his friend, spending time working on his small sculptures and music.

Erik pressed his forehead to the window, shutting his eyes and running a finger along the windowsill.

"I was intending to into town today to find a suit for the ball next week, but this storm is simply awful," Nadir said.

"Who are you going with?" Erik asked, genuinely surprised. He hadn't known that Nadir had a partner. He could almost hear his friend grin as he replied.

"A lady I happened to meet several days ago in town. I had been purchasing ingredients for kebab and the merchant was a fine Persian woman. I'm embarrassed to say I struck up a conversation with her and met her for supper the next evening. I invited her to the ball."

Erik raised his eyebrows. Nadir had not had a woman for years, at least not any woman he had knowledge of. His previous wife had died years ago from illness.

"Well done," said Erik a little dully.

Nadir seemed to understand that this subject might be a little sore for Erik, and so he fell silent and announced his leave. Erik listened to him walk out and shut the door behind him.

The subject of the winter ball was indeed slightly upsetting for Erik. For years he had never paid any mind too it, preferring to amuse himself in his own home, but now that he had developed this secret and humiliating attraction to Christine, he could not help but wonder what would happen if he offered to take her to the ball.

Ah, how wonderful it would be if she agreed to come with him! Though it was only a fantasy, Erik could not help but dream of her, on his arm, wearing something beautiful to the ball, perhaps a blue dress with little white shoes and gloves.

The other door opened this time and Erik's heart leapt into his throat. It was Christine this time...

His student entered quickly and quietly, a little taken aback to see Erik standing there staring at her, as he if were irritated with her. She wasn't late, was she?

"Good morning, maestro," she said softly, shutting the door behind her and approaching her teacher. Erik slipped his arms beneath his cloak.

"Good morning, Christine."

She smiled a little, nervously playing with a limp strand of hair. That stare of his made her feel uncomfortable, like he was gazing upon an obscene piece of art. She glanced down at her feet, suddenly aware of her bland appearance. She was thin and bony, unlike the beautiful ballerinas she had seen so many times. Sunken eyes, milky skin, dead, colorless hair...how ugly she must look in her maestro's eyes.

"Maestro," she said, suddenly bold. "Do you think I am ugly?"

Erik seemed shocked by the question and blinked, stuttering a little in his answer. "No, Christine, of course not. How could you ask such a question?"

"Then you think I am pretty?"

This second question seemed to throw him off balance even more. Usually calm and unwavering in his responses, he was suddenly fumbling to find words, suddenly awkward.

"Yes, yes, you are a pretty young woman. You aren't ugly."

His answer suddenly filled her with hope and courage. A wide, pale smile spread across her lips and she stood proudly on her toes. Her maestro thought her pretty. _He has not seen me dance yet. He shall think my dancing prettier than my looks._

"Watch me dance, maestro," she instructed him excitedly.

Erik could only stand there, dumbfounded, as his pupil danced across the room, humming her own accompaniment, her feet thumping softly on the ground. Erik could only imagine her little silken feet moving quickly over the wooden floor, those little feet he so dearly desired to touch and kiss. He could hear her breathing steadily and evenly in short bursts, he could hear her skirts brushing against each other. Dear God, he wanted so badly to run to her, to stop her and take her tightly in his arms, to feel every inch of her body. He wanted to tell her that he couldn't see her dancing.

His admitting that she was pretty had made her so overjoyed, what could she possibly think if she knew that he loved her, that he adored her more than anything else in this world? Would she leave out of fear, or would she stay with him, pleased by his confession?

When Christine had concluded her dance, bringing her humming to a finale, Erik realized that his eye sockets were stinging with tears.

"Did you like my dancing, maestro?" the child asked breathlessly, approaching him, her pale face now rosy and her hair wild. However, her smile faded when she saw his eyes. They looked so strange...he wasn't looking at her face, he was looking at her feet, and his body seemed to have become rigid like a wooden board. She hadn't upset him somehow, had she?

"Maestro?" she asked softly.

"I liked your dance very much, Christine," he mumbled, suddenly stiff and closed to her.

_I've embarrassed him, _Christine realized with horror.

"Maestro, forgive me, I...I don't know what came over me," she blurted, nervously putting her hand in her hair and plastering the other on her red face. "I became excited, I wanted to show you my dance, I've been practicing. Forgive me."

"No!" Erik almost barked, making Christine start. She stared at him. "No, no. It's all right. I enjoyed your dance."

He went to the piano bench and sat down quickly, apparently ready to begin the lesson, but he seemed to have lost all courage to do so. He touched the piano's keys with a trembling hand.

"Maestro," Christine said, seeing his anxiety and pitying him. She did not know why he was nervous, but she did not need to know; she only wanted to comfort him. Approaching him slowly, she sat beside him on the piano bench.

"Are you going to the ball?" she asked him quietly, hoping to guide his troubled mind to another subject.

"I don't know," Erik replied shortly, refusing to turn and face her.

Christine looked away from him and instead looked at the softly colored keys of the piano. She must ask him, now. If she didn't, she may lose her chance...he might not want to hold more lessons after her silly show of boldness.

She swallowed. "May I ask you to accompany me to the ball?"

Her teacher did not say anything for a few moments, and in those moments Christine began to fear that he thought she had gone completely mad. He would not continue her lessons any more, after her behavior. He must think her such a stupid child. Christine began to feel her eyes well up with tears and she stood up quickly, preparing to flee from the room to hide from him, when he suddenly grabbed her wrist.

"I'll go."

Christine blinked in shock. "You'll come with me?"

"Yes. I'll accompany you to the ball."

* * *

Philippe tossed his newspaper on his brother's plate and gave him an excited smile, pointing his finger at a column below a small headline. "There...you recognize a name there, Raoul?"

The sandy-haired young man frowned and picked up the paper, casting his eyes over female names he did not recognize until he reached one that he remembered very clearly.

_Christine Daae, chorus girl_

"My God!" Raoul cried, leaning back in his chair and laughing. The viscount had not seen his childhood sweetheart in years. Why, he could just remember now, running into the ocean when he was only twelve years old to fetch the girl's red scarf! Lord, what a spanking he'd gotten from the nanny afterwards.

Count Philippe grinned at his young brother's joy. He hadn't seen the boy's eyes sparkle in a very long time. Indeed, he hadn't known Christine was at the Opera until that morning, when he had picked up the paper and read the company listings.

The eldest brother had been worrying for Raoul's health for quite a long time now. After his naval training, his sibling had sunk into a quiet depression, very tired most of the time, his good looks afflicted with dark smudges beneath the eyes and lines around the nose and mouth, his body hunched and exhausted. Philippe hated to admit it, but his brother was a bit soft when it came to rigorous schedules and routines that the navy had forced upon him.

Not to mention, Raoul was a bit inexperienced when it came to women and Philippe suspected that he had become a little jealous. Philippe prided himself in being a lady's man, and more than several times came home at night with a young attractive woman on his arm. Raoul had also had one or two women, but they often teased him about his youthful appearance and his occasional awkwardness. Now that Raoul had realized Christine was in Paris, Philippe hoped that some of his confidence would be restored.

Standing up from his chair, the count gave his excited brother a pat on the shoulder. "Come, Raoul, let's go into the parlor. We'll smoke a cigar in celebration of this find."

The two men left the kitchen and entered the parlor, which, in true de Chagny style, was generously decorated with fine furniture, lace curtains, at the windows, family memorabilia on the small three-drawer dresser against the wall, and a little delicate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A magnificent Aubusson rug, once belonging to the brother's father, lay on the polished wooden floor, and a squat oil lamp with a frosted shade painted with roses sat on an end table beside the settee.

The Count took a seat on a chair while Raoul relaxed on the settee, taking a cigar from the box that his brother offered him. Philippe lit his own cigar, then his brother's, and the two of them puffed deeply. Raoul could still not wipe the smile from his face, and Philippe laughed at this.

"You will not be able to stop smiling for days, Raoul!"

The young man smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. "I'm afraid not, Philippe. This news has made me feel as if I've been cured of a disease. Ah, I cannot wait to see her again!"

The count exhaled the rich cigar smoke thoughtfully. He remembered hearing about a ball being held at the Opera late in this month, but he couldn't be sure if his memory was correct; he never kept up with its occasions or productions.

"You know, Raoul, I recall hearing about a ball, or a party of some sort, being held at the Opera itself. If I'm not mistaken, I believe the date is in the middle of December."

"That's this month!" Raoul blurted foolishly, making Philippe chortle. "There is indeed a party, my dear brother. A winter ball. The company often holds one after a successful season. I remember, Anna told me about it. You remember her, don't you, she was a ballerina there...oh, how exciting."

Philippe leaned back in his seat with a grin. "So what do you plan on doing?"

Raoul returned his smile, his blue eyes full of merriment. "I'm going to find her and invite her to accompany me to the ball."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you for your feedback. I'm trying to develop and explain Erik's disability a little more, as I know some people have been finding it a little jarring, and I am still working on ideas for this story and will eventually go back and probably edit the older chapters. Your reviews are very much appreciated because it becomes really difficult for me to critique my own writing after re-reading the chapter several times. Thanks once again!**

* * *

"My God!" Raoul exclaimed as he entered the Opera's grand hall, removing his hat and gazing up at the magnificent ceiling. He had not been in the building for quite some time now; he hadn't attended an opera since he had returned from the navy. To see the beautiful wide staircase, the glossy floors, the towering columns and the shining sculptures warmed his heart, and the fact that Christine was here somewhere made the place all the more beautiful.

Philippe stood close beside his brother, also removing his hat and taking off his gloves as well. The Opera was a reasonably crowded, as a performance had just ended, and there were many lovely women walking about with their beaus or husbands. Raoul noticed his brother giving subtle flirtatious winks to the ladies he found most attractive. Even at the respectable age of forty, Philippe still behaved like a young fool at the peak of manhood at times like these.

"Come on, Philippe. She's probably in the dressing rooms now. Do you know the way?" Raoul followed close behind the count, who, unsurprisingly, knew how to reach the dressing rooms very easily, and after weaving their way through the patrons, they came upon an ajar door. Philippe rapped upon it and opened it slowly.

"Is Christine Daae in here?" he called out, and Raoul heard several gasps and squeaks from inside.

"Yes, yes, she's over there," he heard a voice reply, and the two men stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, full of young girls in various states of undress and hurrying to cover themselves in the presence of the two men, but Raoul wasn't looking at them; he was looking for the familiar face of his childhood sweetheart.

Reaching the back of the room, they came upon a young woman turned from them and sitting in a chair, struggling to remove her ballet slippers. Raoul's heart began to thud hard in his chest as he approached her. The blond hair looked very familiar, but the shoulders looked bony, the legs looked thin...he reached out with a gloved hand and touched her shoulder. She started and whipped her head round to face him.

He recognized her blue eyes almost immediately, but God...her face looked so different. Her cheeks were slightly hollowed, her pale lips lowered in a weary expression, her shoulders slumped.

"Christine?" he said quietly.

She blinked, looking confused. Raoul knelt down before her, locking her eyes with his and taking her little hand.

"Christine, it's me, Raoul. Do you remember me? When you had your red scarf, and it blew out into the sea..."

"You ran to get it," Christine gasped after a moment, the memory slowly returning to her. Her lips rose in a sudden smile, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. To Raoul's pleasure, her white face began to color.

"Oh, it's you, Raoul!" she cried, throwing her arms around him in a warm embrace. Raoul laughed and pulled her close to his body. She'd become so small, it was as if she hadn't grown very much at all since he'd last seen her. He kissed her cheek.

"Yes, Christine. I've been living in Paris for several years now. I hadn't known that you were here, at the Opera, until my brother recognized your name in the newspaper! It is so good to see you again."

"I'm glad to see you, too, it's been so long," she whispered, taking comfort in his warmth and the scent of his heavy coat and his hair. She pulled back from him slightly, looking up at his eyes. "You came just to see me?"

He nodded, kissing her hand. It was cold. "Yes, and I wanted to invite you to supper. It'll give both of us a chance to talk. We haven't seen each other in so long, I thought it would be nice if we could catch up..."

Christine clapped her hands together endearingly. "Oh, how wonderful, Raoul. Of course, I'll get dressed and I'll meet you in the hall."

Raoul grinned, and with a final kiss to her cheek, he left her and exited the dressing room, amid loud whispers and giggles from the staring chorus girls.

* * *

As the night hours grew later, passing first eight and then nine-o'-clock, the reunited young couple sat at a table in the corner of a fine restaurant, sipping wine and dining on delicious pasta. Christine's face began to turn a little more rosy as she finished her first glass of wine. Shes started giggling when she hiccoughed several times, pressing her fingers to her lips and continually excusing herself.

Raoul, meanwhile, was enjoying himself greatly. Christine seemed to have been filled with the life she had been lacking in the dressing room. Her eyes were full of energy, her spirit full of charm. They'd brought back many memories in the past hour or so, talking about the day they went dancing together as Christine's father played the fiddle, or the first time Christine had been invited to the de Chagny's residence for lunch. To Raoul, she was still the gentle yet excitable girl he'd known for most of his childhood, but she'd grown into quite a fine young woman. Indeed, he had found her attractive during his youth, when he was a boy of fourteen, but now she seemed to be more beautiful than ever. The exhausted look he'd seen in her face earlier seemed to have disappeared altogether.

"So, how have you been at the Opera?" he asked her, swirling the wine in his glass.

"I've been well," she replied, sweeping a strand of hair from her face. "I have been taking ballet lessons and voice lessons."

Raoul raised his eyebrows. "Voice lessons! Ah, you've taken my advice. I always said you had a fantastic voice. Who's your teacher?"

"His name is Erik...he says he is a very sought-after voice professor in Paris. Have you heard of him?"

"No," Raoul said, shaking his head. "I'm afraid not."

Christine smiled a little, taking a sip from her freshly refilled glass. She turned her head away from him, looking about at the other patrons in the restaurant. Raoul's lips lifted in a pleased grin as his eyes drank in her beauty, lingering over her throat and traveling to her breasts, pressed enticingly against the tabletop and creating a gentle dip between them. For only a very brief moment in his mind, Raoul imagined his lips pressed in that space, her hands on the back of his head--

"Raoul?"

He blinked and looked back up at her face. "Yes, Christine?"

"I asked you how your brother is doing."

"Oh," he said, embarrassed that he had been so distracted by such thoughts. For God's sake, he'd only been with her for several hours, and he hadn't seen her in years. Perhaps it was the wine. "He's doing well...he's been out and about lately, on a sort of holiday, I suppose."

She nodded, her beautiful head bobbing up and down.

"Christine," he said suddenly, leaning forward on the table. "I assume you've heard of the ball that's going to be held soon...would you mind terribly if I asked you to go with me?"

He expected her to agree immediately, but he watched with dismay as her mouth slipped into a frown and she suddenly looked troubled. "What's the matter?"

Biting her lip, Christine lowered her gaze to the table. "Oh, Raoul, I'm terribly sorry, but I've already agreed with my voice teacher that I would accompany him. I didn't know you were here, in Paris..."

Raoul sighed quietly and nodded in understanding, but his heart was uncomfortable with this news. Christine was attending the ball with her teacher...wouldn't that signal some sort of relationship, even if it was a friendship, between the two, or perhaps sided to one person? He didn't know how close Christine was to her teacher, but from the sound of it, they were close enough to agree to attend a ball together.

"Are you...seeing him?" he asked tentatively, unsure if he was wandering into private or forbidden territory.

"Oh, no!" she countered quickly, shaking her head firmly. "No, I am only his student, and he my maestro. No, Raoul. I may be able to share a dance or two with you, but I am afraid I cannot enter the ballroom with you. I'm sorry."

"If you are not seeing each other, then, would he mind if you told him you called off the dance with him?"

"It would be rude, Raoul."

He nodded in agreement, though reluctantly. This unknown man made him a bit nervous.

* * *

Erik reached over and pressed a key on his piano, his other hand searching inside the instrument for the vibrating string. He slipped a small wrench inside and adjusted the tension on the string, continually pressing the key until it was perfectly tuned. Giving a satisfied smirk, he stood and closed the lid. He gently stroked the hard glossy surface. He took pleasure in the coolness. The piano was a beautiful creature, gentle and obedient, enjoying its master's touch.

Erik stretched his weary arms and made his way to his wardrobe, reaching inside to rifle through his clothes hanging up. He found one of his shirts, a soft one made of white silk with nicely textured ruffles that Erik liked to touch. The ball was fast approaching, and as of late he'd found himself obsessing over what he was going to wear. Perhaps he was worried that Christine would not like it, or that it was too forward, that he was trying too hard to impress her. He'd begun mapping out the event in his mind the moment he agreed to accompany Christine. He'd meet her in the drawing room, cane in hand, mask on his face, and take her arm. The last thing he wanted to do was lose her and wander into guests. He wanted to use the cane as little as possible.

Erik had been holding back on the subject of his blindness for some time now, but he was finding it more difficult to hide it from Christine. She was infinitely curious and sometimes made comments on his wandering eyes. In all truth, he'd become lazy as of late and sometimes his glass eyes would shift away from her face for a brief moment. Nadir kept suggesting that he tell her about his disability, but Erik was very reluctant to, as the story behind it was disturbing and not appropriate for a young woman's ears, and his mask was already enough of an intimidation for her. If she ever realized that his current eyes were false, and the real ones sat preserved in a jar beneath his bed, she would never speak to him again.

A knock on the door shook him from his wandering thoughts. "Yes," he called out, gathering his tools from atop the piano. He heard the door open.

"Are you hungry? I've made some stew," Nadir asked him from the doorway. Erik went to a chest against the walls and stored his tools inside.

"No, I don't have much of an appetite," Erik replied, lifting a hand and running his fingers through his hair. He sat down at his desk and resumed work on one of his masks, a white leather piece with delicate white embroidery sewn into a leaf pattern around the brow and cheeks. The thread had started to pull out in certain places.

Nadir watched his friend move about the room. Even after all these years he still found it remarkable that this sightless man could move around the room as easily as a man who still had his eyes. What was even more remarkable was that he could also find his way around the massive Paris Opera without assistance.

Making his way around the Opera had not always come easily for Erik. He'd lived here for God knew how many years, and with countless walks through the building with Nadir, his hand on the wall, he'd memorized the sound of certain floors, the texture of walls, the temperature of a room, the echo, the doors..

With practice, Erik had also become skilled at keeping his eyes on the face of the person before him. His eye muscles had weakened over the years from disuse, and it took some effort to keep them still. With Nadir's help, he'd learned to pick up the faint sounds of breathing and to focus his eyes in that direction to avoid looking strange and uninterested. _"I want to look as normal a man as possible," _he'd said to Nadir, with a rather sad smile. At first, Nadir did not understand why he wanted to do this sort of training--he rarely, if ever, encountered other people--but after seeing him in his room, sculpting small figures of young women out of clay, he began to understand a small part of his friend's eccentric mind.

It became apparent Erik had a lonely fantasy. Though too afraid to venture above and meet real women, he contented himself with creating female busts, hands and feet out of plaster, and when he was finished with a piece, he would store them inside the drawers of a large cabinet. Nadir knew that Erik often eased his unbearable loneliness by touching these works; he'd even come across him kissing a bust of a beautiful young woman one day, caressing the head with his hands, pressing his lips to the cheeks and mouth. The sight was saddening, fascinating and disturbing all at once. It seemed Erik was vainly trying to prepare himself in the rare case he should ever meet a real woman.

Nadir was afraid that this "real woman" was now Christine Daae.

"I haven't seen that in a while," he mentioned to Erik, referring to the mask.

"It's time I repaired it," Erik said simply.

"Why?"

His friend seemed to grow slightly uncomfortable. "I'm attending the ball."

Nadir's heart sank. "Not with Christine."

"Yes, with Christine."

Nadir reached over and gently stopped Erik's hand. "Erik, you cannot do that. She's far too young, she's naïve. She doesn't--"

"Why the hell do you keep needling me about her?" Erik barked suddenly, giving Nadir a bad start. "I'd appreciate it if you kept out of my business, once and for all. She is very dear to me, and I believe she enjoys my company as well. She was the one who invited me to the ball, not I. I hardly think that she is too young or naïve to attend a ball."

"You know what I mean," Nadir replied shortly, becoming irritated. "I happened to see you holding her in the rehearsal room, _hypnotizing _her. When you whispered into her ear, when you put her arms around you! She is too innocent to have her mind manipulated like that!"

"Get out," Erik said softly. His hands curled around the mask on the desk, his shoulders lifted in a painful hunch. Nadir realized he had spoken too much of his own mind and fell silent immediately, stepping away away from Erik. Unless he wanted to endure a barrage of loud insults and perhaps a book thrown at him, he needed to stop this conversation now.

The most he could do now was pray that the young woman's soul would be protected from the raging desires of Erik's starved heart.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Dear readers, your feedback is much appreciated. Tell me honestly what you think of this chapter, because I am not really confident about it (not sure why). Thank you! :)**

* * *

"How do I look, Meg?"

The young ballet student clapped her hands together with delight when she saw Christine's dress. "Oh, it's beautiful, Christine. Helena's dress fits you so well. Look, the blue matches your eyes!" She held up a the hem of the light blue silk and looked up at her friend's excited eyes.

"I love it very much," Christine said, touching the gently puffed sleeves and fingering the pearl necklace around her throat. She must remember to thank Helena for lending her this dress. She had feared that she would have been forced to wear one of her plain old calico dresses for this ball. How embarrassing that would have been, meeting Erik in such a homely thing!

She sat down before her mirror for the hundredth time, looking over her face to ensure nothing was out of place. She looked like a duchess, what with the lamplight glowing softly on her skin and her usually limp hair swept up into a chignon. Meg had slipped several pins topped with small pearls into Christine's hair to match her necklace.

"You look lovely, Christine." Meg told her friend gently, touching her shoulder.

"Thank you, Meg." Christine reached for the pair of thin white gloves sitting atop the vanity and slipped them onto her hands while glancing at the grandfather clock, Seven-fifty-five; five minutes to walk to the rehearsal room and meet Erik.

A knock sounded on the dressing room door, and Meg ran to answer it.

"It Mademoiselle Daae in here?"

Christine lifted her head at the familiar voice, smiling broadly. "Raoul?"

His face appeared in the space between the door and the frame, his mouth spread in a wide grin, displaying his pearly teeth. He stepped inside, wearing a crisp black evening suit for the occasion. His golden hair was combed back flat and smooth on his head, curled up at the back of his neck, and his bright blue eyes shone softly in the lamplight. Christine unexpectedly found her heart fluttering and tore her eyes from his face.

"I thought I'd stop in to say good evening," Raoul said, approaching Christine's chair. He took her hand and she blushed when he gave it a kiss. He'd always been such a gentleman.

"Thank you, Raoul. You look very handsome," she complimented him, suddenly finding that she was too shy to make eye contact with him. Goodness, what was wrong with her tonight? She was behaving like a child.

"May I say that you look very beautiful as well, mademoiselle?" He smiled and kissed her hand again.

"I will share a dance or two with you at the ball, Raoul. Look for me!" She touched his cheek fondly with her fingertips as the grandfather clock chimed the hour.

* * *

"I'm so sorry, maestro," Christine exclaimed breathlessly, rushing into the rehearsal hall and slamming the door behind her. "I became a bit distracted when a friend came to see me. I'm sorry."

Erik was sitting in a chair beside the piano, his hands patiently folded in his lap. At Christine's frantic explanation, his lips rose limply in a weak smile. He stood, taking a gold topped-cane from where it had been leaning against the chair.

"It's all right," he said quietly, approaching her slowly. Christine smiled. He'd dressed so smartly for this event, wearing a black swallow-tailed coat with a white silk shirt front beneath his vest. He wore no cloak or hat this time, and he seemed to have paid particular attention to his finely combed hair.

What was most surprising, however, was the new white mask he wore on his face. Christine could see that it was embroidered across the cheeks and brow with delicate white thread. She hadn't known that he possessed more than one mask. Secretly, she had been hoping that he would wear no mask tonight, so she could finally see his face, but apparently he was still concerned about attracting unwanted attention from those who would recognize him. The mask was pretty, but she could not help but feel slightly disappointed.

"You look very nice," she told him with a pleasant smile.

"Thank you. You look beautiful."

Christine lowered her eyes demurely to the floor, noticing his highly polished shoes. He must have spent a reasonable amount of time preparing himself for this event. She dearly hoped it wasn't just for her sake...she wasn't worth his precious time.

"Thank you, maestro. Are you ready to leave?"

He offered her his arm in reply with an inviting smile.

* * *

The two of them entered the foyer to the sounds of chatter, music and laughter ringing off the shining stone floors. The ornate chandeliers hanging in a neat row cast warm golden light upon the thick red curtains and the beautiful decorative columns. Christine, although she had been to the foyer several times before, could not hold back her delight in seeing such magnificent architecture.

To add to the spectacle, the foyer was crowded with the Opera's company, who were all laughing and chatting amongst each other and having a wonderful time. There was also lively music being provided by several of the Opera's musicians.

Christine recognized many people in the room. Some of them were her teachers, but most of them were her fellow ballet students, giggling and red in the face as always. This time, however, they were accompanied by their young beaus, who stood around them awkwardly as the young girls blushed and touched their partner's arms and chests as if they had never seen a man before in their lives.

Self-consciously touching her hair, Christine maneuvered slowly through the crowd, her hand still wrapped gently around Erik's arm. She wasn't positive why, but she found she enjoyed the small physical contact, the muted feeling of his arm beneath his coat sleeve. Though she was ashamed to think so, she couldn't help but wonder if he liked having her hand on his arm.

"What would you like to do?" Erik asked her as they walked.

Christine spotted a man carrying a tray of full wine glasses, and she took one. Erik did not.

"Would you like some wine, Erik?" she asked him, frowning.

"Ah...no, no thank you."

The two continued on while Christine delicately tasted the white wine. She felt as if she needed to be doing something with Erik, like making small talk or having a dance, but Erik was not one to chat and no one else was dancing yet. She was beginning to feel a bit awkward, walking about with him and nothing to do.

"Christine!" Meg Giry's voice called out. Christine turned and smiled when she saw her friend coming towards her, looking like a little china doll in her white dress.

"Oh, you look so darling, Meg," she exclaimed, letting go of Erik's arm and taking her friend's hands excitedly. "Are you having a good time?"

"Of course! Come on, you must meet the young man I've brought with me. He's a gentleman. Oh..." she had spotted Erik standing behind her. "Who's this?"

Christine turned to Erik. "This is my voice teacher, Erik. He was kind enough to accompany me tonight."

Meg offered her hand. "Pleased to meet you, monsieur. I must say you've dressed quite magnificently for this occasion; I've haven't seen anyone wearing a pretty mask like yours!"

Erik did not take her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Her smile fading, Meg withdrew her hand uncertainly and looked back at Christine. "Come on, Christine, you must meet him. We'll only be a minute."

Assuring Erik that she would return soon, Christine walked off, her hand leaving his arm, and he was left standing alone in the crowded foyer. He didn't dare move, afraid he would run straight into someone and cause a stir. He was probably attracting more attention the longer he stood there by himself.

He took his cane from under his arm, placed it before him and moved very cautiously, trying to find his way to the wall, so he could rest and get his bearings. Voices passed his ears very closely, bodies brushed roughly against him with an occasional "pardon me", and several times he stepped on a foot and had to excuse himself. He could feel his face growing warm from embarrassment beneath his mask. Perhaps this hadn't been a good idea after all.

At long last, and after several encounters with the walls, his cane touched a heavy chair and he sat down, surprised to realize that he was a little breathless. Erik almost never ventured into a crowd like this; he was completely unused to moving through so many people. He didn't know how he would be able to keep up this facade of healthy sight much longer.

For several minutes Erik sat there, straining his ears to try and pick up Christine's voice in the room, but it was nearly impossible with all the laughter, coughing and loud chatter he could hear. Hopefully she would be able to find her way back to him, because he didn't know how far he'd strayed.

"Erik! There you are," Christine's soft voice rang out, and Erik could rest easy. "I thought I'd lost you."

"Christine," he said, reaching his hand out. She took it, he felt her soft silk gloves. He breathed deeply and considered his following words carefully. "I must tell you something before we continue on with the night."

"Yes?" He heard her skirts ruffle and he heard her breathing close to his face. She was kneeling in front of him. This gesture touched Erik, she was concerned for him.

He sighed. "I may not be able to dance with you or socialize properly with your friends because I am blind."

There was a moment of silence. A woman laughed very loudly in the foyer.

"You're blind?" she whispered.

"Yes. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, I thought...I thought you would be frightened."

He received no immediate reply and started to become nervous.

"But your eyes are moving, you're looking at me," she countered after a moment, sounding hopelessly confused. Erik's heart was quickly becoming weighted down with guilt.

"They're false. I cannot see you at all."

"You have no eyes?" she said quietly. Erik could not detect from her voice what she was feeling at this moment. He prayed to God that she was not horrified out of her mind.

"No."

The two of them remained there for a few tense moments, Christine still kneeling before him with her limp hand in his. Her mind was reeling with this news, trying to understand why he had hidden this from her, and thinking back on her previous lessons with him. How had he managed to keep this fact a complete secret from her this entire time? She hadn't even noticed it or suspected that something was amiss. It was true that sometimes his eyes did wander, and he did walk with a slow and careful step, but she hadn't taken his actions to be something out of the ordinary.

Christine directed her gaze up to Erik's face, suddenly reluctant to look at this man whom she had known for many weeks. His eyes, which she once thought to be warm and friendly, now seemed so painfully false that Christine didn't know how she could have missed them before. Cold, emotionless pieces of glass sunk into his skull.

She became embarrassed when she remembered the moments she'd thought she had charmed him with her dancing, her new shoes or her dress. He'd even told her she was pretty. How could he think she was pretty if he couldn't see her?

A deep, cold disappointment began to sink into Christine's heart. Quite suddenly, her maestro, whose company she had come to enjoy, was a complete stranger to her again, and she a stranger to him, since he did not know what she looked like. How odd that the two of them had been acquainted for no more than three months, and yet neither had seen the other's face.

"I am deeply sorry if I've upset you," Erik said softly.

"I'm only upset because you lied to me, Erik," Christine replied in a solemn tone, her disappointment becoming evident. "You didn't have to hide this from me. Come to think of it, why do you refuse to show me your face as well? Am I not worthy enough to know what my teacher looks like?"

Erik's lips pressed tightly together; she had clearly started to toe a line. He released Christine's hand and leaned back in his chair, away from her. "I believe I requested that you not speak of that."

Christine frowned, standing up. He'd admitted lying to her about his blindness, and yet he still wanted to be so secretive. She cared for this man. Did that not deserve at least a glimpse of his face, or knowledge of his disability?

"Why must you keep all of these secrets from me, maestro?" she asked him, her frustration mounting. "Do you not consider me close enough a friend that you cannot reveal your blindness or your face to me?"

"No," Erik stumbled, panicking now. "Christine, you are very close to me, I...I have never been happier since I began teaching you. Your voice has touched me very deeply. I did not want to frighten you away from me. Please try to understand."

Christine began to feel very uncomfortable. She did not know how to respond to Erik's strange admission of these feelings. "Erik, you are frightening me away because I feel I do not know you. You are still a stranger to me...and I think I am still a stranger to you, too. I'm sorry."

She pressed a hand to her forehead. Her temples were beginning to pound with a headache. "I will see you at our next lesson. I apologize for the way this night has ended."

Christine disappeared.

Erik was left sitting in his chair, his hand gripping his head, his face burning red from humiliation behind his mask. Nauseous and lightheaded, he had the horrible feeling that he had just let her slip right through is fingers. His damned paranoia, tripping himself up, driving Christine away from his adoring affections! By keeping his secrets, he had thought he would be more attractive to her. No young lady in her right mind wanted a blind, deformed bastard that deserved to live in the gutters. Why, then, did she insist on knowing all of these private facts?

He sat there for another hour. The celebration began to escalate as the company started to dance to the bouncing music, laughing and singing, but Erik was in no mood to make merry. He shuffled slowly to his feet, groping for his damned cane, and walked slowly home.

-oOo-

The viscount and the young ballet student sat together on the chaise in the darkened dressing room, listening to the sounds of their breathing. The floor above them creaked as the other ballet rats, no doubt returning from trysts with their lovers, crept back to the dormitories far past their bedtimes.

The two young people in the room were very quiet, with Christine lying on top of Raoul de Chagny, her heart beating rapidly against his chest. Her eyes were wide in the darkness, her body unused to the feeling of lying in a man's protective embrace. Fiery arousal pumped through both their veins, but she was too timid to go any further.

"What's the matter?" Raoul whispered, lifting one large hand to stroke her mussed hair. Christine could hear his voice rumble from deep within his chest.

"The night did not go so well for me," she replied sadly, sighing heavily. "My maestro revealed to me that he is blind, though he has told me before that he found me pretty."

"Oh," Raoul said, sounding mildly surprised. "Why didn't he tell you this before?"

"I don't know, Raoul," she said helplessly, quickly wiping away a single tear on her cheek "He is so secretive, he won't even let me see his face. I feel ashamed that I am not worthy enough to see what my teacher looks like."

The viscount kissed the top of her head. "You are worthy, Christine. He is just a selfish man. Come, cheer up...I am not blind, and I think you are very beautiful."

In spite of herself, she smiled, looking up at Raoul's handsome face. She slipped her hand up along his chest and wrapped it around his neck. His scent, the sensation of his body beneath her, and his soft voice were so soothing. Her eyes fluttered closed.

"I love you, Christine," Raoul whispered.

"I love you, Raoul."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thanks for your reviews/comments/suggestions, again. I will eventually go back and edit the other chapters to fix errors (for example the seven fifty-five issue) so your feedback is very much needed, as always. :)**

* * *

Nadir hadn't seen Erik like this for years.

Observing him from the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, Nadir's unblinking eyes focused on Erik's hunched figure at the desk. A large lump of clay sitting before his friend was being worked by his sensitive hands, pressed and molded into the familiar shape of a human nose. He was making another bust.

It wasn't the sculpting that was worrying Nadir, however. Erik's behavior had changed dramatically last week, the day after the ball, to be exact. Almost completely silent, withdrawn, irritable, displaying his nervous habits, and most unusual of all, he had started smoking his pipe. Erik had not smoked in at least two or three years. If he was smoking now, it was a clear sign of distress.

Unfortunately for Nadir, his friend did not want to speak of the thing that was tormenting him. He'd asked Erik about it, but all he had received in reply was a firm shake of the head and a quiet "perhaps later".

Nadir's eyes traveled over to the cabinet that contained Erik's works, its doors and drawers open. He could see a neat stack of the busts sitting comfortably inside, and a pile of plaster female hands and feet inside the drawers. Nadir had seen them before, but the sight always made him shudder.

It seemed that Erik's memory of the female face had faded slightly over the years since he'd been blinded. The busts he created were completely smooth and flawless, almost inhuman. They had large, shapely lips for Erik to kiss and long necks for him to caress. The eyes were always closed.

Taking a deep breath, Nadir wandered into the room. He approached his friend, dragging his feet on the floor to let him know he was behind him. Erik had told him many times that he hated being crept up on.

"How are you?" Nadir asked him gently, standing next to him. Erik hadn't put in his glass eyes yet, as his soft blindfold was tied around his head.

"The same," Erik replied shortly. His fingers smoothed the sides of the roughly sculpted nose. Nadir could hear the restrained exhaustion in his wavering voice.

"Can you tell me what happened, Erik? I fear for your health, you've not been well."

Erik heaved a deep sigh through his lips, leaning back in his chair and folding his clay stained hands together tightly. He suddenly looked so tired, so quickly aged, that Nadir almost felt guilty for prodding him once again about this subject.

"I never should have kept my blindness a secret," Erik said softly. "From Christine, I mean."

Nadir sat down slowly on the foot of Erik's bed, focusing intently on the distressed man before him. "Did she find out about it, or did you tell her?"

"I told her," Erik replied in a sullen tone. "The ball was much more difficult than I had expected. The crowd was considerably large and Christine wanted to go off and socialize. I simply could not pass off as a sighted man any longer."

He breathed, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "She became upset when I explained to her. She thinks I do not consider her enough of a friend to trust her with my secrets."

Nadir's brow wrinkled deeply in a frown. The girl, naïve and innocent as she was, was apparently easily distraught by change, which would explain her reaction to Erik's disability. Still, even when taking these possibilities into consideration, it was an irrational thing to do.

"Erik, you do not have to reveal your private matters to her if you do not want to. She is obviously fragile and is unable to properly interact with a unique person like you. Perhaps she just needs a little time to adjust."

Erik chortled coldly, his mouth twisting into a sudden smirk. He cracked the joints in his knuckles. "She had better get used to me soon. My blindness and my face are not going to just disappear into thin air."

Something about Erik's tone unnerved Nadir deeply. Beneath the harmless sarcasm, tactlessness and eccentric personality, his friend harbored a savagely possessive nature that was usually accompanied by an uncontrollable urge to commit some sort of violence, either on himself or on another person. This terrifying state of mind was rarely seen in Erik by Nadir, but when he had witnessed it, several people had suffered by Erik's hands.

One of them had been a woman.

"You are right, Erik, but you must remember that Christine is very delicate. You must be gentle."

"I am trying, Nadir."

* * *

Christine stared at the white ivory keys before her, spreading her fingers out on the keys in an imaginary chord. She tentatively pressed them down, and a horrific sound was produced from the instrument. Grimacing, she took her hand away.

_He can play better than I can, and he's blind, _she thought bemusedly, remembering her teacher's long fingers and how they had caressed the keys effortlessly. She could only wonder at how long it had taken him to master that skill.

Painful guilt started to churn in her gut again. She had not seen or heard from Erik since that unfortunate evening, and as the days had started to progress, she became more and more ashamed of what she had said to him. Truth be told, she had been shocked when Erik had told her about his blindness, and in her shock she had rudely berated him for holding back his secrets from her.

Though Raoul, bless his good heart, had tried to reassure her that none of this was her fault, her shame continued to escalate. She had to admit that she had begun to fancy Erik a little during their early lessons, and so she sought to charm him with her dancing and try to please him with her singing. She had been willing to share herself with him, in a way, and yet when she discovered Erik had covered up his disability, she had felt hurt. Her teacher did not want to share himself with her.

To add to her confusion, now dear Raoul had been thrown into the situation. Her childhood friend had grown into a sinfully handsome man, and she was embarrassed to feel a growing desire for him. When she had sought him out the night of the ball, she had been so confused she did not know who to turn to. Raoul had welcomed her into his arms and comforted her with kisses, and she enjoyed that. Her teacher had hardly laid a finger on her during the months they had had their lessons.

Christine jumped a little when the door to the rehearsal room opened. She turned around quickly.

Erik was shuffling through the doorway. He shut the door behind him and Christine could hear him sigh from across the room. She watched him as he walked towards her, his arms tucked beneath his heavy winter cloak, his head held up high. He appeared to be staring directly at her, but he did not acknowledge her presence at all. Perhaps he didn't know she was in the room.

He walked over to the piano, reaching out his pale hand to touch the glossy black lid. Christine watched his fingertips slowly drag over the surface, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with an immense sadness. The only way this man could see was by touch...had he ever seen the sky, with its soft white clouds, or a beautiful green park with sweet smelling flowerbeds? Did he know what color was? How long had he been without his sight?

These and many other questions started to balance on the tip of her tongue, but she dared not speak and scare him to death. She didn't know how to make her presence known to him.

"Erik?" she asked very softly.

He stiffened visibly, drawing his hand back inside his cloak immediately. "Christine. Forgive me, I didn't know you were here."

"Don't apologize," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. "It wasn't your fault."

She stood up slowly, shutting the lid on the piano keys. "Erik, before we begin our lesson...may I speak with you?"

He nodded, keeping his head turned away from her. Now that she had knowledge of his disability, he seemed to have abandoned all efforts to make it appear that he was gazing at her. He seemed much more distant and closed.

Christine stood across from him on the other side of the piano. She folded her hands before her and took a deep breath. She was glad Erik could not see her embarrassment.

"Erik, I want to apologize for what happened during the ball," she started quietly. "I was very shocked when you told me, and I believe I spoke my mind a little too harshly. I did not mean to hurt you. Please accept my apology, but if you cannot, I understand."

Her maestro did not react at all at first, his glass eyes still focused at a point just to her right, his lips pressed tightly together. Christine began to fear that he would not accept her apology and stalk out of the room.

"I accept it," he replied, "...and I am sorry I lied to you."

Christine shook her head, a small smile gracing her lips. "You do not have to apologize for anything, Erik."

He blinked and also smiled, though this one almost looked forced. Christine came around the piano to stand next to him, and looked up at his rigid body. Why was he so tense?

"Would you like to see me?" she asked him, her heart skipping a beat even as she spoke. To her shame, her face began to grow warm.

"See you?" he repeated in a near whisper.

"Give me your hand," she said, reaching out to him. He slowly obeyed, placing his hand in hers. Christine had rarely touched him before, and his hand still felt heavy, cold and foreign in hers. She gently directed it to her face and placed it on her cheek.

Erik's jaw was set very tightly. He did not move his hand.

"Go on," she encouraged him, pitying his fear. He obviously did not do this very often.

She gently released his hand and it remained on her cheek. Very slowly, he pulled his fingertips up and across her brow, his thumb running over her eyebrows. He very lightly touched her closed eyes.

"What color are they?" he asked in a strange tone.

"Blue," she replied with a soft smile.

Erik brushed his index finger across her nose and then her upper lip. His touch lingered very briefly on her lips, and then stopped once he reached her chin. Christine almost wanted to tell him that he could continue, knowing that his hand would start to travel down her neck, but she bit her tongue. God would most certainly damn her for saying such a thing, not to mention having such improper thoughts.

Her teacher withdrew his hand. "Thank you," he said flatly.

Christine was slightly taken aback by the lack of emotion in his voice. He almost sounded irritated. His mouth opened but he said nothing, and he buried his hand in his hair instead. Why did he look so distressed?

"I do not think we will have a lesson today," Erik said. Christine's spirits fell. She hadn't said or done something to offend him again, had she?

With a polite nod and smile, though Erik could not see it, Christine parted from him after she bid him good day. As she shut the door, her mind began to whirl with more questions. He'd been so hesitant to touch her face, as if he was doing something disgraceful. And what of his reaction afterwards? He was such a strange man, she feared she would never come to understand him completely.

Sighing lightly, she drew her shawl around her shoulders more tightly. Perhaps her dinner with Raoul tonight would brighten up her mood.

* * *

_Damn it to hell! _Raoul silently cursed as he dropped his fork with a loud clatter onto his plate. God, he was nervous in front of Christine. However, she was quite amused by his behavior, giggling demurely behind her hand.

"Is there something wrong, Raoul?" Philippe asked him innocently from across the table. Raoul's neck grew red.

"No, Philippe," he mumbled, picking up his fork and regaining his composure.

Christine smiled, dabbing her mouth delicately with her napkin and brushing her hands on her skirts. She sighed and glanced up at the golden chandelier casting warm lamplight over the table and the partially finished plates of lamb. Raoul could not hold back a grin at her fascination. She had never been to the de Chagny residence here in Paris, and so throughout the evening she had been voicing her amazement at the décor and the spacious rooms.

Raoul's attention, however, had been so focused on Christine tonight that he could hardly keep his head on straight. She was wearing a simple white dress to the dinner that was quite charming, but it was obviously not her own dress, because it was slightly too big for her small body. As a result, the neckline would slide down just an inch or two, offering Raoul a madly tempting view of her bosom for just a moment until she noticed and hastily adjusted her dress, apologizing. She obviously did not know how much she was driving Raoul mad with desire.

He'd become so enamored by her so quickly that he was little stunned. Why, only two weeks ago he had seen her again for the first time in years, and now he was harboring such strong feelings for her. Perhaps this was due to the fact that he had not been with a woman in quite some time, but it was still surprising.

"Well, that was a marvelous supper," Christine commented, setting her fork down on her empty plate and folding her used napkin on the table. "Thank you, Monsieur Count, Raoul. It was wonderful."

Philippe nodded politely at her, motioning for the two maids standing in the corners of the room to come and take their dishes away. He asked Christine if she would like dessert but she declined gently.

The count announced that he was going to smoke in the parlor and exited the room, leaving Christine and Raoul alone as the maids took the plates away into the kitchen. Raoul grinned when he met Christine's eyes across the table. She smiled in return and looked down at the white tablecloth.

"Let's go onto the patio," he suggested, standing up from the table. Christine agreed and so they both left, Raoul taking Christine's hand on his arm.

The night was cold and still, and the full moon had risen high. The crickets hidden in the hedges of the garden chirped together in a disjointed monotonous melody. Christine smiled at the sound, pulling her cloak around her body more tightly. Raoul's arm slipped gently around her waist.

"Are you too cold?" he asked her. She shook her head.

"If you're too cold we can go back inside."

"I'm fine, Raoul." She blinked up at him and gave him a warm smile. "You're keeping me warm."

He grinned and tightened his arm around her waist. The faint scent of her perfume was intoxicating, he wanted to get so close to her, to feel her soft skin beneath her cloak and bury his face in her hair.

Raoul gently pressed his hand to the side of her face, his eyes focused on her smooth lips. His own mouth was burning for a taste of her.

"Raoul..."

Her soft whisper drove him over the edge he was teetering on. He moved his hand to the back of her head, pulling her close, and kissed her. Christine's arms folded against his chest as he drew her against his body, and he could feel her back gently arching. Her sensual fragrance filled his mind.

"Christine," he murmured against her lips. Her arms slowly came around his body and her hands pressed against his shoulder blades, pulling him down closer. She was obviously enjoying this as much as he was.

Raoul forgot about how cold it was outside. His body began to grow very warm under his cloak, and he considered taking it off. Then again...perhaps they could go inside...into the privacy of his bedroom. He certainly wouldn't mind.

He pushed his tongue against her lips as pleasurable images began to swim in his mind. The two of them in his bed, a naked Christine moaning beneath him, her blond hair spread out over the pillow, her hands in his hair as he moved vigorously against her. _"Oh, Raoul!"_

"Raoul."

"Hmm?"

"You're squeezing me..."

He immediately loosened his grip around her body, finding that he was slightly breathless. "Forgive me, Christine. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

She smiled. "No." Reaching up her small hand, she gently touched his lips and his chin. "I must leave. I have lessons in the morning..."

"Must you?" he asked in a tone that held more disappointment than he had intended. They had only just started. Passion was still flowing hotly through his veins, and he didn't just want to put it out just like that, without her in his arms.

"Yes...but I will see you again, soon. Thank you for supper."

And so the evening ended. Christine gathered her things, gave Raoul a good-night kiss, and walked to the door. She turned about to give him a wave, with the strangest look on her face, as if she were about to laugh. Raoul had no idea what she thought was so funny, they had just been locked in a very loving kiss. Surely she did not find that amusing...?

It was only when she shut the door that Raoul glanced down and saw, with dismay, the evident sign that he had been too carried away with his thoughts. His face flushing, he muttered a string of curses and stalked off to bed.

* * *

One by one, the busts shattered against the hard floor beside the lake. A pile of broken stone and crushed plaster sat before Erik's feet, the dust filling his nostrils and causing him to cough. He took his last work, lifted it above his head and brought it down hard against the floor. The sound of the stone smashing into shards was pleasing. He did not need these false female strangers. He no longer wanted to kiss their cold lips. Now he knew Christine's face...the shape of her eyes and her brows, the softness of her lips, the curve of her jaw, he remembered all of her.

_I hadn't touched a woman in so long...I had almost forgotten what their faces looked like. Felt like. She allowed me to touch her...she took my hand and made me touch her._

_I love her._

Erik stood there on the bank of the lake for a few moments, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his back slightly damp with sweat from the destructive work. His once-tamed hair hung over his blindfold in long raven strands. Christine was running through his veins, through his mind. His heart beat for her. His soul begged for her. His ears were burning to hear her sing...she had not sung in so long for him...

_She will sing for me. She is mine. _

He dropped to his knees and shoved the pile of material into the lake. It was all gone. He would start over.

Now he would only make Christine.


	9. Chapter 9

Erik reached out his hand and ran his palm along the length of the thick rope. Even after all these years of disuse, it seemed to be holding up the lift safely. He climbed down off the top of the box and made his way inside to inspect the interior of the machine. The aged wood floor groaned loudly beneath his weight, but it did not give. Erik grinned; his careful construction had paid off even after such a long time.

Grasping the sturdy rope to his left, Erik felt for a lever on the floor and unlocked the lift's braking mechanism. The entire contraption creaked and wailed horrifically but the iron gears remained firmly in place. Erik began to pull the rope carefully downwards and the elevator began to descend, loudly and slowly.

He smiled again, priding himself on his well-built machine.

Erik walked off the lift when it stopped at its destination and groped for the doorknob he knew was in front of him. The door squeaked as he opened it, and Erik detected the familiar smell of his home. This secret entry into his living room had, like the lift, not been used in years.

"Erik?"

He stepped inside his living room and shut the door behind him. "Yes, Nadir?"

His friend gave a disapproving groan. "What have you been doing?"

Erik brushed off his sleeves, they were most likely stained with grease and dirt. "I've just oiled and used the elevator."

"Why?" Nadir demanded. God, he was so suspicious sometimes, always behaving as if Erik was up to no good.

"I only wanted to see if it still worked," Erik said simply, and disappeared into his bedroom.

He released a great sigh as he closed his door. A suppressed excitement had been roaring through his veins all day. Christine would be here this afternoon. He'd invited her over to his home in the two weeks after the ball, because she had shyly asked him where he resided.

"_I'm afraid you'll find my question too intrusive," she said, her poor voice wavering a little. _

"_I shall determine that after you've asked it. Go on," Erik encouraged her, finding her timidness endearing. _

"_Where do you live? I have never seen you in the streets of Paris, or anywhere else for that matter except in this building. I am so curious, forgive me, maestro."_

_A pause. _

"_Would you like me to show you?" Erik asked her._

Dear girl, she'd sounded so nervous and excited when Erik had offered her the chance to see his home. She'd laughed and touched his shoulder in thanks, causing pleasure to surge through his mind. Every time she made physical contact with him it took all of his self-control to not reach out and return the favor. If he could have his way he would take her face in his hands, caressing every feature, breathing the fragrance of her hair and her skin.

Erik dragged a heavy sheet out from his closet and draped it over his desk where Christine's bust was being worked on. It was taking him longer than usual; he wanted to make sure every detail was flawless. For the time being, he would hide it from Christine until it was finished.

He straightened up his bookshelf and his nightstand, clearing any items that Christine might find frightening. Erik's second pair of glass eyes, cases of pinned insects, jars of small preserved animals; these were all hidden beneath his bed. His fascination for weaponry would also be kept secret from her. The large cabinet in the wall that contained a handsome collection of swords and firearms was hidden behind a sliding panel painted to look like the rest of the wall. Vast amounts of music were stashed away in his wardrobe. Mask-making materials and projects were put away.

Now that his bedroom was nearly stripped bare of the more disturbing details, it was appropriate for Christine to view. Erik leaned against his door, folding his arms against his chest and tilting his head back. He could hardly believe that the object of his affection would be here in less than two hours, gracing _his _room with her presence.

_Perhaps she'll even taking a liking to it, _he mused with a hopeful smile.

-oOo-

"Where exactly are we going?" Christine asked, watching her teacher take out that large ring of keys from his pocket. He flipped through them quickly until he found the right key and unlocked the large old door before them. Christine was immediately met with a cold, musty smell.

"Down," he said simply. He put the keys away and reached out his hand for hers. "Come along."

She hesitated before she put her hand in his. He obviously sensed something amiss, because he asked her, "are you all right?"

"Yes," she replied, swallowing as her wide eyes gazed into the blackness beyond the door. She had never even considered venturing into those cold dark basements before, she had heard they were horrid and wet and infested with rodents and spiders. She couldn't imagine her elegant, well-dressed maestro living in a place like that.

"I'm just a little frightened," she admitted reluctantly. Erik smiled, his hand tightening around her fingers. She was glad he was wearing gloves so she would not have to feel how cold he was.

"Don't worry," he said, and he led her through the door, shutting and locking it behind them.

Christine could not see anything in this darkness. She instinctively reached out one arm, trying to feel for a wall, or a handhold of some kind. She could hear a soft echo moving through that passage, like an infinite sigh bouncing off the freezing stone. There was a heavy moisture hanging in the air, she could feel it on her skin. Her ears were straining to hear any sounds of vermin scuffling around her feet.

"Come," Erik said again beside her. Christine was suddenly aware of how tightly her fingers were wrapped around his hand and loosened her grip. She did not want to break his fingers out of her fright.

The two of them descended deeper into the basements of the building. Erik seemed to know exactly where he was going; they went down one staircase, passed through two doors, down several more staircases, and then up a short one. Christine only felt that they were walking in circles. When she began to shiver from cold Erik gave her his cloak, which completely enveloped her small body and dragged on the floor. She needed to remember to clean it for Erik when they arrived at his home.

"Here we are," Erik muttered, arriving at a small rusty cage and opening a door in the side. Christine stared at him. She was slightly wary of walking into a little cage with such thick bars.

"It's a lift," he said after a moment of silence.

They both entered the elevator and Erik shut the door while Christine looked around the contraption with curiosity. She had never seen a lift before. There was a lit oil lantern hanging from the ceiling and two ropes on the opposite side of the lift, both of them running through the ceiling and the floor. She watched with interest as Erik shed his coat and yanked up a large lever in the floor. He reached up to one of the ropes and began pulling it slowly downwards.

Christine jumped with fright as the small cage groaned loudly and began to move. She stared out the side of the lift, hoping to see something below them, but all she could see was blackness. A brief surge of terror struck her heart as she wondered if they could be descending into Hell. Perhaps any moment she would see orange flames below, coming closer and closer to swallow her up.

Scaring herself with her own thoughts, Christine pulled the huge cloak more tightly around herself and watched Erik operating the lift. Her gaze lingered on his arms reaching up and pulling the rope repeatedly downwards in a slow rhythm. Beneath the white dress shirt she could see the faint, slender contours of the muscles flexing. Her eyes moved across his broad shoulders, down his narrow torso and his thin legs. It suddenly occurred to her that she had never seen Erik without his jacket on before. He'd always covered himself up so well, be it with his cloak, mask or his hat. She hadn't known how thin he was beneath his heavy outerwear. In fact, she found the sight of him...pleasant.

The lift stopped moving with a dull thud, jolting her out of her wandering thoughts. Erik pressed down the lever in the floor, picked up his coat and shrugged it onto his shoulders. He took Christine's hand and led her through the lift's door, and then groped for something in front of him.

Suddenly, Christine was exposed to a warm glowing light from a doorway. Erik stepped through, guiding her over the threshold, and Christine laid eyes on the most garish room she had ever seen.

She did not even know where to look first. The walls were papered with horrific, loud floral patterns, and heavy rose curtains were drawn at the windows. Wildly patterned rugs were spread out horizontally and vertically everywhere on the wooden floor. Mismatched furniture sat in various places around the room; a blood red canape sitting in front of the stone fireplace, a worn, black chair sitting a ways next to it, a small round table that would have been nice save for the bizarre carvings etched in its surface. The two chairs that accompanied it were nothing alike. They were even painted different colors.

What was strangest of all, however, was the ceiling. Strings of beads, pieces of glass, bamboo, pebbles, dented chimes, and bunches of dead, dried flowers, were all hanging down just above her head. There were also strips of different fabrics hanging both from the ceiling and walls in the form of large tapestries. Christine felt as if she had walked into an unbelievable dream.

"This is my living room," Erik announced, a hint of pride in his voice that Christine detected.

She nodded. "It's very...different."

Her maestro grinned. "I know it may look strange to you, but you must understand that I take particular pleasure in the sensations of touch and sound. All of the furnishings and decorations you see were chosen personally by myself based on their texture or sound." He reached up and gently brushed the strings of bamboo pieces. They rattled against each other. "It is very calming."

Christine walked cautiously about the strange room, her eyes traveling over the lavishly painted tapestries. She wondered how he could have possibly found all of this and brought it down to his home; certainly he couldn't have done this himself...?

"Would you like to see my room?" Erik asked her.

A slight flutter of nervousness jumped in Christine's belly. Seeing someone's room, especially her teacher's, was something she felt was slightly too intrusive, as if she was going to peer further into his mind. She followed him to another door and he gestured her to walk inside.

Like the living room, Erik's bedroom was horrifically mismatched. An enormous pipe organ lay flush against the far wall, its golden pipes disappearing into the ceiling, and a glossy grand piano sat at the wall to her left. Erik's bed--Christine felt embarrassed when she looked at it--was made with a heavy white comforter and mismatched velvet pillows. There was a beautiful bookshelf to her right and next to it was a large wardrobe, its doors carved with more strange patterns. A single oddity hung on the wall next to Erik's bed, and it was made out of countless scraps of colored fabric with various textures. _Perhaps it is like reading a book, _Christine thought with a slight smile. _He cannot see, but he can amuse himself with textures and patterns. _

However, this room seemed strangely empty compared to the previous room. She spotted a table covered with a sheet, and a chest over in the corner, but there was little else that seemed odd. One exception, though, was the large amount of books in the bookshelf.

"Why do you have so many books, Erik?" Christine asked him.

"Some of them I have never read, but if I want to read one I will have Nadir read to me."

She blinked at the foreign name. "Who is Nadir?"

"A friend," he said shortly, sitting down at the organ. "Would you like to sing?"

"Oh," Christine said, feeling warm. She wasn't prepared for singing. "Perhaps another time, Erik--"

"Sing for me. Please."

Without waiting for her to answer, Erik began to play the organ. Christine's ears were immediately assaulted with the loud, rich roar of the full minor chords and the wailing melody. The music thundered inside her chest cavity. Her heart raced, her pulse pounded in her temples, and her frail body began to tremble. She recognized the music from one of the pieces she had been practicing in their lessons. However, this time, it was many times more powerful.

Christine opened her mouth and began to sing without stopping to remember the words. In fact, she did not sing the words; she simply sang, giving every ounce of power she had in her body to her voice. Erik had commanded that she sing for him. Surely she could not offer him a weak song. She needed to _give _her voice to him.

The hypnotic music grew even higher in volume, flowing through Christine's body like a drug. A pleasant fog drifted through her mind, a soft warm sensation. She felt as if she could walk on air. Her half-lidded eyes focused on Erik's straight back, his stiff shoulders. Dimly aware of her actions, she staggered towards him, her throat growing dry from singing so powerfully. She draped her arms around his shoulders, her wicked hands twisting his head slowly to the side, while one buried itself in his thick hair. _My dear lord of music. I will sing for you forever. My voice is no one's but yours. Take my soul. _

The music stopped.

Christine slowly became acutely aware of heavy breathing. It was not only her that was rasping for air, it was also Erik, whose head was lovingly entrapped in her hands, one against the side of his face, the other tangled in his hair. He sounded as if he could hardly breathe. His eyes were closed, his hands lay still at his sides.

"Oh God!" she cried, immediately releasing him and stepping back. Her face was burning, she was completely mortified. How had she let herself get so carried away?

Erik turned towards her slowly on the bench, his hair now mussed from her hand, his eyes half-opened. "Why did you...stop?" he whispered.

Christine turned and ran from the room and straight into someone's chest. She fell back a little, terrified, and looked up into the dark-skinned face of a stranger.

"Mademoiselle Daae?" the man said, looking completely stunned.

Christine began to feel very light-headed. The mismatched room wavered a little in her vision, and she fell gently to her knees in a faint. Nadir quickly grabbed her before she could fall forward and hit the floor.

"Erik! What the hell is going on!" he shouted. He couldn't wait to hear the explanation behind this.

"Take her back to her dormitory, Nadir." Erik said quietly from his bedroom.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thank you again for your reviews!**

* * *

TWO MONTHS LATER

The house on the lake had been quiet and dark for many weeks. An occasional light flickered in one of the windows, but it would always go out after twenty minutes or so. The boat remained tied off, unused for these past days. The slimy, frigid waters had not been disturbed.

Erik hadn't left the house.

Nadir sat slumped in his chair in his large coat, shivering from the cold. His friend was beside him, recently stricken by illness, lying motionless on the sofa and covered by a blanket. A plate of dry bread and withered fruit from that morning sat on the table, mostly untouched. Erik hadn't felt like eating.

Everything had changed after Christine's visit to the house. Returning home, Nadir had literally run into Mademoiselle Daae as she was exiting Erik's bedroom. The poor girl suffered a fainting spell and Nadir took her back to her dormitories, but when he came back to the house on the lake, he was stunned to hear Erik sobbing behind his closed bedroom door.

He hadn't heard his friend cry in many, many years. The sound was extremely distressing. Despite repeated knocks on his door, Erik did not come out and eventually fell silent around midnight.

The following day Erik did exit his room in a frightful state. His hair was wild and unkempt, he'd obviously slept in his clothes, and his feet were bare. His arms were folded tightly across his chest. Nadir had stared at him, very concerned at this point. He had never seen his friend like this.

"_What's wrong?"_ he had asked Erik.

Erik gave a wavering sigh and visibly shivered. He shook his head. _"I don't know."_

After many long silences and unnerving behavior from Erik, Nadir had managed to get a partial explanation for this. Something had happened between Erik and Mademoiselle Daae the previous night, but of course his friend would not go into detail of that. He had only said:

"_I have never felt like this before. My heart is burning for her. All I want to do is touch her and I want her to touch me. Her voice drives me mad. I'm willing to offer myself to her as her slave, I will do anything she wishes. God, she is perfection..._

"_Christine was taken by the Music. I played for her on the organ and she sang...and immediately her soul was clutched by the Music's hand, just as mine was taken by It. It frightened Christine."_

"_What happened? How did you know she was entranced with the music?" _Nadir had pressed his troubled friend.

"_I cannot tell you," _Erik answered with a sigh, and turned his head away.

"_I know she will not come back."_

Erik had been correct. Christine had not returned or made any sort of contact with either of them since that incident here at the house. Nadir began to fear that Erik had become heartsick from her absence, and was slowly losing his will to stay in good health. He hadn't displayed a strong appetite at all and he hadn't washed himself, save for a few times when Nadir demanded that he take a hot bath.

The Persian detective regarded his friend with dark eyes, listening to his congested breathing. He placed the back of his hand against Erik's forehead. The fever seemed to be going down.

Nadir sighed and touched Erik's blindfold gently. This man was such a pitiful creature. Mentally unstable, afflicted with a deformity from birth, his eyes gouged out, his body scarred. Erik should have ended up in in the streets as a beggar, or locked up in an asylum for the remainder of his natural life, but Nadir had been kind enough to see this man's immense pain and could only feel a need to help him. It hurt him to even think of Erik lying in the streets or sitting alone in a madhouse. His friend was a genius, a brilliant musician who was also skilled in architecture, magic tricks and art. Such a fantastic mind did not deserve to go to waste.

Of course, Erik was very dangerous, there was no overlooking that. His mind, brilliant as it was, was unfortunately quite twisted and damaged as well. Over the years Nadir had witnessed Erik's mental sufferings. There had been spells of sheer insanity, with screaming and flying objects thrown at Nadir's head, and there had been the deathly quiet and sneaky attempts at suicide. Nadir was forced to remain awake at night sometimes to ensure that Erik did not try to run away again and hang himself. It had happened once already, and Nadir had almost been too late.

_He turned a corner, covered in sweat, heart pounding, and looked up at the beam that had been wedged between the two buildings. He could see Erik hanging there by a rope around his neck, his body convulsing. His friend, dying. Blindly, Nadir rushed up the ladder before him, wrapping his arms around Erik and hoisting him up so he could breathe. _

_Nadir could only sob in relief as he held Erik's unconscious body. This madness had to stop.  
_

Folding his hands, Nadir gave a sad smile at his sleeping companion. Even with the knowledge of Erik's murders and atrocities, his moments of insanity, his childish reasoning and his obsessive nature, Nadir had come to see Erik as a son to be taken care of.

_Flap._

Nadir raised his head at the sound. A letter had arrived in the gold letterbox by the hearth. He frowned and retrieved it, recognizing the handwriting that was addressed to himself. He flipped it open.

_Monsieur Kahn:_

_I have been concerned over Monsieur Erik's whereabouts over these last two months. I have not seen nor heard anything from him, and I hope he is well. Please respond when it is most convenient for you._

_Christine is doing well. She was cast as Marguerite in Gounod's _Faust. _Monsieur Erik's lessons have been extremely effective, and I thank him on her behalf. _

_Regards,_

_Mme. Giry_

Christine, the lead soprano in _Faust! _Erik might die of joy if he heard this. Perhaps when he was better, he could tell him the news. He didn't want to have Erik running about to see this opera in such an ill state.

"What does it say?"

His heart sank. Erik had woken up.

Nadir wandered back to Erik's side, taking his seat again. He set the folded letter on the table.

"It was from Madame Giry. She hasn't heard from you and wanted to know if you are well."

Erik gave a bloodless smile. "Considerate woman. How kind of her."

"Yes," said Nadir.

There was silence for a moment.

"How is Christine?"

Nadir debated whether or not to tell Erik that Christine was mentioned in the letter. Perhaps Erik wouldn't be feeling up to seeing _Faust _and would plan to see a performance in the near future. However, considering Erik's current obsession with Christine, he would most likely want to see her now.

"She's well," Nadir replied.

"Is that all?"

He couldn't bring himself to lie to him. "She was cast as Marguerite in _Faust." _

Erik's breath hitched. His fingers curled towards his palm. Nadir even saw some color return to what he could see of his face.

"Marguerite!" he whispered, ecstatic. "My student, from chorus girl to soprano...I did not fail her."

Nadir started to stand up to get Erik something to drink, but a hand latched onto his arm.

"Is there a showing of _Faust_ tonight?"

"I don't know."

Erik fell back onto his pillow, his hand still wrapped around Nadir's arm. "Get the season programme from the mantel. Find out for me."

Nadir did as he was told and fetched the programme, flipping it open to _Faust_. The opera had opened the previous day and there was a performance that night.

"Yes, Erik. There's a performance tonight, but you can't go when you're this ill."

"To hell with my condition," Erik snapped, sitting up on the sofa and throwing the blanket off himself. "Pour me a glass of bourbon. I'm going to wash and dress. I must see her tonight."

Despite Nadir's protests, Erik walked off into his bathroom, hacking and coughing as he shut the door.

* * *

They didn't arrive at Box Five until after Act Three had started. Though washed up and dressed properly, Erik was still feeling unwell and preferred to hold onto Nadir's shoulder and follow him rather than walk unassisted. Once they had reached the box, Erik slumped behind the curtain in one of the generous velvet chairs. Nadir sat next to him, peering warily onto the stage while trying to be sure no one could clearly see them.

"We haven't reached her ballad or aria yet," Erik whispered, satisfied.

Indeed, only a few minutes passed and Christine entered the stage dressed as Marguerite, in a beautiful white dress with rose-colored sleeves to her wrists. Her hair was done up in a coiled braid. Nadir wished Erik could see her.

"What is she wearing?" Erik demanded to know in a soft tone. Nadir explained her costume to him, every detail that he could see, how her hair looked and the way her eyes shone and her lips were lifted in a smile. Erik listened silently, obviously excited for what was to come.

Then, she opened her mouth to sing _l était un roi de Thulé._

Erik had not been exaggerating; her voice was heavenly. Pure as a bell, powerful, her vibrato even and perfect. The sound sent chills up Nadir's spine. If there were such a thing as angels on earth, Christine Daae could most certainly be one of them.

Nadir cast a glance over at Erik. He was completely still, leaning forward intently, his head turned slightly to the side so he could hear her. His hands were clenching the arms of his chair, and his knuckles were white. His lips were pressed in a tight line. Nadir could only imagine what emotions he must have been feeling at this moment. His pupil, the result of his hard work, on stage at last as a leading role.

As Christine finished her ballad, she then glided over to the large chest of jewels sitting near a bench on stage. She tried on beautiful necklaces and rings, a look of wonderul joy on her face, and began her aria.

_Ah! je ris de me voir, si belle en ce miroir, Ah! je ris de me voir, si belle en ce miroir,_

_Est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi?_

Nadir watched Erik as the Jewel Song began. He seemed to be slowly sinking into some sort of rapture. He leaned his head back, his hands still gripping the chair arms, breathing deeply and evenly. He almost looked exhausted. His behavior made Nadir nervous. To Erik, Christine voice was apparently equivalent to a drug, overpowering and soothing to him. Nadir now started to understand why Christine was so important to Erik; he needed her to live, somehow. Her voice sounded entirely different to his ears than it did to Nadir's.

When Christine reached her finale, bringing her voice to a high, triumphant trill, the audience applauded her loudly. Erik remained still in his chair, and Nadir began to wonder if he had fallen asleep.

* * *

"Hurry," Erik pressed, staying close behind Nadir with a hand firmly on his shoulder. "She may have many admirers. She may leave soon."

Indeed, the hallway was full of chattering admirers pushing to see Mademoiselle Daae, many of them young men, but there were many of her fellow chorus girls as well. The strong fragrance of roses mixed with cigar smoke hung heavily over their heads.

"Do you see her?" Erik asked. Nadir was straining to see past the endless bodies to catch a glimpse of Christine's distinctive golden hair but there were dozens of top hats obstructing his view.

"Not yet," he replied, keeping his eyes wide open.

The admirers slowly began to drift away, obviously coming to the conclusion that Christine did not want to see any of them, and Nadir could now look for her. His eyes scanned a small group of women over by the wall. One of them was wearing a cloak with a cowl pulled over her head.

_Is that you, Christine Daae?_

He slowly advanced forward, still behind the cover of the remaining crowd in the hallway. The woman pushed back her cowl slightly as she spoke to a younger girl, and Nadir could see rosy lips and a charming, angelic face. It was her.

Just as Nadir was about to guide Erik to greet her, he was gently pushed to the side by a man and heard a muttered "pardon me". He glared at the man as he passed him and seemed to head directly for Mademoiselle Daae. The girls around Christine giggled and dispersed.

They embraced. Christine stood on her toes, wrapping her arms around the man's neck, and kissed his lips. The blond admirer returned her affections.

She had a lover.

Nadir's face began to pale, his blood turning cold. She was taken by another man. Erik could not have her. Poor Erik, who dreamed of her daily, who fed on her voice like a vampire fed on blood, who had devoted his life to her, could not have her.

_He cannot know about this._

"Well?" Erik said impatiently, his grip tightening on Nadir's shoulder. "Do you see her?"

Nadir breathed slowly, trying to keep his voice calm and free of suspicion . "No. She must have left through another hallway. I'm sorry, Erik."

Christine and the young man kissed again. His hands were moving to her waist, while her hands were lifting to cup his face.

This was a rare moment in which Nadir thanked Allah that Erik was blind.

_He must never find out. He'll die. _


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thanks for your encouragement! I am trying to kick-start the story into a faster pace. :) Sorry for the late update. My two final weeks at school are insanely busy and I do not have as much time to write. I try to update every weekend if I have it off. **

* * *

Raoul could sense something amiss in Christine's behavior. In the past weeks, though she smiled and laughed with him and liked to hold his hands, he would often see her staring at a fixed point with such a troubled look in her eyes. She would misplace things or forget names, and sometimes she would bite her fingernails and tug at her earlobes. Raoul was now beginning to worry himself what was going on in her lovely head.

He watched her, sitting across from him, delicately eating her poached egg. Her golden hair was pulled back into a soft bun, and a loose, tantalizing curl lay against her collarbone. A grin tugged at his lips.

"Christine," he spoke softly. Her large blue eyes looked up at him, and he found himself charmed by her innocent expression. Her thin, slender face and its small features coupled with her big eyes were enough to melt any man's heart.

Reaching across the glossy tabletop, Raoul gently touched her hand holding her silver fork. "You look very beautiful this morning."

She smiled demurely, lowered her head in thanks, and continued eating. Raoul's grin faded and he withdrew his hand slowly. Christine seemed so tired.

"Darling," he tried again, watching as she pushed her breakfast around her plate with her fork. "Has something been troubling you? I have noticed that you have been behaving differently for a reasonably long time. You are so quiet and you look so tired. Please tell me, Christine, is something wrong?"

She blinked and shook her head. "Oh...it's nothing, really, Raoul. I have just been very exhausted from singing."

Raoul nodded and smiled gently, but he knew there was something else that was bothering her.

After breakfast the Viscount and the new soprano left the de Chagny residence and took Raoul's carriage to the Opera so Christine could perform for _Faust _later that night. Raoul watched her during the ride. Her eyes were following the people in the street as they passed them, and her lips twitched in a smile when she saw a small group of ragamuffin children playing loudly in the gutters.

Raoul gently interlocked his hand in her fingers. He would try to talk to her again and root out the source of her worry. "How have your voice lessons been going?"

Christine didn't take her gaze from the window. "I'm not taking voice lessons any more," she replied quietly, in a strange tone Raoul couldn't recognize. He frowned deeply. Christine had enjoyed her voice lessons very much, she had often told him how much she appreciated her teacher.

"Why?" he asked her.

He clearly heard her take a deep, wavering breath. "I...didn't like the way my maestro was teaching me."

"Indeed?" Raoul mused, his confusion mounting. This confession didn't make any sense, not after all the times she'd told him how well her lessons had been going. "How did he teach you...in what way?"

"I don't know, Raoul," Christine said shortly, obviously growing uncomfortable with this subject. "I will talk to you about it later."

The viscount was silent for the rest of the ride to the Opera, but the cogs in his mind were beginning to turn at a faster pace.

-oOo-

Upon arrival, Raoul escorted Christine up into the building and through the foyer, in the direction of her new dressing room. After her healthy success in _Faust_, she had been granted the privilege of using one of the larger dressing rooms, and she was very pleased with it. Raoul remembered carrying her belongings into the room and watching her twirl about on her heel. _"Oh, isn't it charming, Raoul?" _she had cried, catching his arm and dragging him into an awkward dance, causing him to spill her clothes on the floor. He hardly minded, though, after she had pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips.

Raoul opened the dressing room door for Christine, and after closing it he took her wrap and her gloves. He set them aside on her dresser and watched as she carefully took out her hairpins, setting them on her vanity. He could see her face in the mirror, and obviously she could see him too, because she gave him a gentle smile. He approached her and gently put his hand on her shoulder and leaned down to kiss her good-bye.

When he touched her cheek with his lips, she turned and met his mouth with hers, startling him. He thought she would pull away quickly but instead she reached up and wrapped her hands around his head, drawing his face snugly against hers.

"Christine," he mumbled against her demanding kiss, stepping backwards.

"I need you, Raoul," she whispered, pushing her lips relentlessly against him. "Please, just kiss me."

And so he did. Their passionate moment lasted for a minute, then three, then five. Raoul was feeling incredibly warm and had a strong urge to take off his coat. She pulled back just a little to compose herself, her red lips swollen and shining in the soft lamplight...and, to Raoul's shock, there were tears on her cheeks.

"Oh, forgive me, Raoul! I don't know what came over me...I have been so lonely these past days, I have wanted nothing but to feel your touch. Please forgive me for my abruptness...you may leave if you wish."

Raoul grinned, loosening his collar a little. "Oh no, Christine. If you wish to feel my touch so badly, you only needed to ask. You don't have to be shy." He reached up and gently brushed her tears away with his thumb. Leaning down, he softly pressed a kiss to her lips again.

Very slowly, he became aware of an odd silence in the room, as well as a slight draft. He pulled away from the kiss gently, his arms around Christine's waist, and raised his head a little.

His heart skipped a beat and he opened his mouth to utter a surprised shout, but Christine's hand clamped down on his lips before he could make a sound.

There was a cloaked man standing in the room with them, no more than ten feet away.

* * *

His pulse was thunder in his ears, his muscles hard iron, hands curled into white fists. His brain was searing with hot rage, completely boiled over and surging through raised veins.

_Bastard. Bloody, crawling, insignificant, slimy dog..._

Christine had a lover.

Erik had suspected it for weeks. Nadir, the fool, had refused to speculate on the possibility. He'd known it all along, hadn't he? He'd kept this secret from him. That snake would get his punishment later.

After all this time, after all of _his _time that Erik had devoted to teaching Christine, after guiding her to the stage, after making her a soprano..._this _was how she repaid him. Wrapped in another man's arms, caressed willingly by his hands, kissed by his lips. All she wanted was his touch, she'd said. His touch. Not Erik's touch.

He couldn't believe it. How long had she been with this boy? Had she kept him on the side as a source of love and satisfaction, while she put Erik to work during her lessons? Is that how she wanted to play the game?

So be it.

"Christine," Erik spoke in a tone of horrible calm. He knew they were in this room. He'd heard them in the ceiling. He'd followed them all the way from the foyer to the dressing room in complete stealth without raising their suspicions. There was no denying they were in there.

"I know you are here."

His ears slowly picked up the sound of very soft breathing a short distance in front of him. No doubt Christine, being the clever girl, had probably silenced her man somehow in a pathetic attempt to protect him. He knew they were looking straight at him.

Suddenly, that unfamiliar hateful voice broke the silence.

"Who are you? Why are you in here?" Charming, the boy was being brave, perhaps stepping protectively in front of Christine. Erik's upper lip curled in a grin.

"Are you aware that you are trespassing on my property?" Erik replied coolly, his heart rate increasing steadily.

"Get out, or I will summon the authorities," the fool warned.

Erik's rage reached a breaking point. He leapt forward almost soundlessly, his arms outstretched before him, ready to feel solid flesh and muscle. He came in contact with the man—he could feel his shirt—and shoved him hard to the floor, wrapping one hand around his throat and pinning his arms to his side with his knees. With the other hand he began to feel the face of his opponent so that he knew what he looked like. Smooth skin, angled jaw, thin lips, slender nose, and rounded brow.

"Get off!--" the man grunted, but his voice disappeared as Erik fastened both hands tightly around his throat, completely sealing off his air supply. He could feel his prey start to struggle under him as he fought for breath.

"Stop! Erik!" Christine's shrill voice screamed as she ran over. Erik could hear her crying in terror. "Let him go! Stop, you'll kill him!"

Erik did not reply. His mind fogged over with mad fury he had not experienced since his days in Persia. He could not be satisfied until he had killed the source of his anger and displeasure. The boy had to die.

Feeling thumps on his back, Erik suddenly realized that Christine was striking him with her fists, trying to make him stop. Her attempts slightly amused him, and yet, made him strangely sad.

"Stop, _stop, _Erik, please..." she gasped.

"No," Erik hissed.

He cried out in pain suddenly when Christine's hand buried itself in his hair and pulled violently backwards. Reflexively, he released the boy under him, who gasped loudly and shuddered.

"Raoul!" Christine cried, and Erik heard her drop to the floor beside the man's head. "Oh, Raoul..."

Her words stoked Erik's rage further. He leapt forward and pinned her to the floor. She squeaked in protest.

"You are coming with me," he rumbled, standing up with her. His arms were wrapped around her, pinning her own arms to her sides; she could only kick at his legs.

"Erik, let me go! Stop this!" she begged, twisting vainly in his arms. Erik ignored her and stepped outside the dressing room, pressing his hand over her mouth as he rushed silently down the hall, his body pressed to the wall, and through the black door at the end of the passage, plunged into the depths of the building.

-oOo-

_He's gone completely mad..._

Christine writhed wildly in Erik's imprisoning arms, repeatedly kicking his shins in an attempt to free herself. She could see nothing in this blackness, but still Erik continued to walk. His hand was still pressed over her mouth. Twisting her head, she opened her mouth and bit his thumb hard.

"Damn it," he muttered, taking his hand away immediately. Christine opened her mouth to scream, but quite suddenly Erik pushed her to the ground, his knee on her back.

"I do not want to do this, but you leave me no other choice," he said, and Christine began to feel ill. He took her hands and bound them behind her back with some sort of cord, and as she was about to protest, she felt him tie a handkerchief over her lips. _What does he want to do to me?_

Now that she was trussed, Erik picked her up again and walked her down a flight of stairs. Christine had no choice but to walk with him peacefully, her head lowered and her body trembling in terror. Her mind was still on Raoul, unconscious in her dressing room. _Dear God, please let him be all right..._

"I am very unhappy with you," Erik said calmly, far too calmly. Christine shuddered at his tone. "What were you thinking, running into the arms of another man? Did you forget about my music, my lessons? Did you give any fleeting thought towards your maestro?"

Christine could only cower in fear from him, her cheeks shining with tears. This was not the same man she had been acquainted with two months ago. The Erik she knew had been far gentler, quieter. He'd transformed into a different person entirely.

They came upon a little dinghy, and Christine suddenly realized that they were standing on the bank of the lake far below the Opera. She became frightened when Erik picked her up and lay her in the boat. He stepped in with her, towering horribly over her, and began to row the dinghy across the water.

She could hear his forceful breathing in between the soft splashes of the oar. She dared not think what would happen once they reached Erik's home.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you so much for your feedback! I am having trouble with this story plotwise, so if you have any suggestions or ideas please don't be afraid to mention them to me. My creative skills get worn out after reading my story and its chapters over and over, so some fresh perspectives or ideas would be great!**

* * *

When the boat nudged gently against the bank, Christine watched Erik lay down the oar down and step carefully out. He dropped to his knees and slowly gathered her up into his arms. She could hear his stressful breathing and feel his arms tense and trembling beneath her body. Something was terribly wrong with him; he'd been stricken by some sort of illness, or madness. There was no other reason for a person like him to turn so violently on her, and on poor Raoul.

After taking a few steps in the darkness, Erik's body pushed up against something and the area was flooded with soft light. Christine blinked, realizing that he had walked through a door. They were in a bedroom that Christine did not recognize, with feminine bed coverings on the mattress, a wardrobe and a vanity.

Erik laid her down on the bed and Christine's stomach began to churn with fear in this vulnerable position. Could Erik's anger be so great that he would dare assault her...? He removed his handkerchief from her mouth and rolled her over so he could untie her hands. She could feel his fingers shaking.

"How long have you been with him?" he asked in a deathly soft voice. "Why did you hide this from me?"

Christine remained silent, afraid that one wrong word would send him into an even more violent frenzy.

"Answer me," he hissed, firmly rolling her onto her back.

Now that there was adequate light from the glass lamp on the nightstand, Christine could see Erik more clearly. She was shocked at the state of him; unkempt, wild hair, his jaw and chin unshaven, a dirty blindfold over his eyes. Her maestro had always been well groomed and clean; it was painful to see him such a mess. _What on earth happened to him? He is falling to peices... _

"A few months," she finally said quietly, trying to suppress the fear in her voice. "He is a childhood friend of mine, Erik."

"He is your lover," Erik corrected her harshly, bending down and coming closer to her face. Christine detected a very faint trace of wine on his breath.

As he hovered over her like a lion about to devour his prey, Christine tried to reason _why _Erik was so upset by her relationship with Raoul. To her knowledge, Raoul did not pose any sort of threat to Erik's work, life, or home, so what possible reason was there for Erik to inflict such violence on the both of them? He couldn't possibly see Raoul as _competition, _could he? Had he latched onto her so desperately that he wanted to hide her from her friends and those who loved her?

"Erik, why are you so angry?" she asked him, nervously rubbing her wrists where they had been bound.

Her maestro's jaw shifted to the side, and she saw his hands clench on the bedspread. He suddenly appeared to be at a loss for words; for the first time, Erik did not seem to know how to answer her question, or perhaps he was holding back what he wanted to say...would it possibly expose him, reveal to Christine a secret he did not want her to know

"You had no right to hurt Raoul and take me away from him. What is wrong with you, Erik?" she whispered.

To Christine's terror, Erik's lips rose up in a twisted grin, revealing several teeth. "What is wrong with me?" he repeated softly, passing a slender hand over his untamed hair. "Well, Christine, if you must know, there are many things wrong with me. My brain does not function like yours. Think of it this way, my dear; if you purchase a healthy dog, beat him, neglect him, and tie him up outside in the cold, he becomes a nasty, vicious animal that will bite your hand off if you approach him. My mind is like the dog, and if I find something that disturbs or upsets me, I will make certain it is eliminated. I am a sick man, Christine. If I did not live here, I would be locked up in an asylum."

Christine's eyes grew dark and wide. She cowered under Erik, who was steadily leaning closer and closer to her, so much that she was forced to press her head back into the bedspread. The smoothness and calmness with which he spoke of his mental state was deeply frightening.

"Lastly," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "there is another problem I have. It came to my attention several months ago. It has kept me awake many nights, made me feel ill, and has made me behave strangely; that is, more strangely than I behave now. I have never been happier since I found this problem, and yet, it has cast me into a dark despair that I have not experienced for years. Do you know what the problem is, Christine?"

Christine stared blankly at the masked, blindfolded face before her. "No."

He moved his head so his lips were just next to her ear. She could feel and hear his warm breath and a shiver moved down her spine.

"I love you, Christine."

A strange, cold mixture of emotions flooded Christine's mind at Erik's words. The first distinguishable emotion was shock; her own maestro, considerably older than her, was in love with her. Why didn't he tell her before? She briefly recalled the day their lessons started, when Erik had requested that he touch her hand, and how pleased he had looked. He'd even taken her to the ball. He'd held her close to him during the journey to his house. All these gestures now seemed to have a completely different intention now that he had revealed this news to her.

She was also horrified by this confession. This man was so erratic, so disturbed and at times, violent, and yet he admitted his love for her. She could not even begin to comprehend spending such time with him. What if he wished to be kissed by her? She could not return his affections, not after what he had done.

She was _Raoul's _lover...

"Erik," she started slowly, breathing deeply, but he put his hand over her mouth gently.

"When I heard you singing, you chained me to your soul. I was entranced. There is an element of seduction, of madness, even, in your voice, that I could not resist. I needed to know you. I believe you are music in human, female form...absolute _beauty..."_

Erik's other long, slender hand pressed gently to her face, the thin fingers dragging along her features, over her nose and cheekbones and even daring to touch her blond hair. She became very aware of how near his body was. Her body tensed and she pushed his shoulders firmly, hoping to make her discomfort known to him.

Erik, however, was completely oblivious to her body language. His breathing in her ear deepened, and his hand, nearly covering her face, continued to touch and caress her facial features. Christine grimaced when she felt his rough stubble graze her ear.

"Stop," she said sharply, twisting her head away from his mouth and his hand. She got off the bed and moved away from him, her eyes dark and fearful. This man had once been her friend whom she had trusted. He seemed to be slowly transforming into a different person altogether, a more frightening and disturbed man than she had ever imagined him to be. She did not want to touch him and she did not want to feel his hands on her, even though he was blind and touch was his sight. She currently held no pity for his impairment.

Christine stood there silently, regarding her former maestro sitting on the bed. He seemed confused at her sudden departure, passing his hand over the comforter where she had just been laying. He was slouched over, his head hanging low; a mere shadow of the tall, confident man he had always been.

Erik stood up slowly, his breathing pattern ragged and tired. Christine inhaled deeply and prepared herself for his reactions at her next words.

"I do not love you, Erik."

At first there was no indication from Erik that he had even heard her. He stood there, swaying just slightly on his feet, licking his lips.

He took a step towards her. Christine stepped away, and her back touched the wall.

"You do not love me?" Erik repeated icily, coming ever closer.

Christine's eyes hardened on his covered face. "I love Raoul. I am sorry."

She could see his muscles tightening in his body. The lump in his throat rose and fell as he swallowed. His lips curled to reveal his clenched teeth, and as she glanced down, she saw his hands roll into hard fists. Christine's heart began to pump loudly in her chest and she started to regret speaking those words.

"I offered my heart to you," he hissed dangerously, moving even closer and straightening up, "I taught you to sing. I care for you more deeply than any of your instructors ever will...and THIS is how you show me your gratitude. Kissing another man, rushing into his arms. Perhaps you have slept with him as well. I wouldn't know, after all, I cannot SEE you!"

Christine began to shake beneath his towering body and his thunderous voice that was steadily rising in volume. Her eyes began to fill with tears. "I have not slept with him!" she retorted in a trembling voice. "How could you say such a thing?"

Erik's hands snapped up and latched tightly onto Christine's shoulders, pressing her to the wall. She could hardly breathe from terror as she stared up into his hidden face. "You will learn to love me, Christine. You may hate me now, but I will show you that I am not a bad man. I am even more of a gentleman than your boy."

"Leave me be," she pleaded, unable to ease the tremors in her body. "Please, Erik, let me alone..."

"Silence," he snapped firmly. He dropped his head beside her ear again, breathed deeply and began to sing.

Christine stiffened immediately at the sound of his voice. It was deep and soft as silk, dark and cool to her ears. She had never heard her maestro sing, except perhaps in a dream or two..._or had it been a dream?_ He possessed such a magnificent throat. This man could not be the demon he seemed to behave like. He was an angel in the form of a disturbed human, he had to be. There was no other explanation for that caressing voice coming from such a hardened heart.

Raoul slowly began to fade from her mind, tucked away for another time.

She could not understand the language Erik was singing in, but she needn't know the words he was singing. Her stiffened body began to relax, and her eyes lazily rolled around in their sockets. Slowly, her arms lifted from her sides and she spread her hands on Erik's back. His beautiful voice was vibrating in his chest cavity.

_My lord of music..._

The voice was so alluring that Christine could not help but arch her back against the wall, experiencing a sudden and frightening ache to feel his body against her. Her left hand buried itself in his wild hair, tenderly caressing the scalp she had cruelly yanked only a short while ago. She felt her own teacher's body quiver under her touch; she hoped he was as aroused by her touch as she was by his.

"Maestro,", she breathed, and sank into an hypnotic sleep.

* * *

"Oh God! Monsieur Vicomte! Oh, are you all right?"

Raoul's eyes slowly blinked open to reveal three faces hovering close above him. Large eyes stared at him and he could feel a hand gently stroking his hair from his forehead. Groaning softly, he sat up and put a hand to his sore, bruised throat. His temples throbbed with a dull headache.

"Ah..." he hissed as he began to remember what had just happened to him. There was that man in the cloak who had leapt upon him, and Raoul recalled feeling a cold hand cover his face. After that, there had been choking and an incredible pain in his head, chest and throat as he'd struggled to breathe.

Where was Christine?

He stared blearily around the ballet girl's legs but he could not see Christine anywhere. _Oh God, has that man taken her? _Horrific visuals of a screaming Christine being beaten and violated swam into his confused brain. His heart jumped into his throat.

"I need a gendarme," Raoul rasped hoarsely, struggling to his feet. The ballet girls gasped and wrung their hands, and one of them attempted to fix his wrinkled and loosened collar. "Please leave me be, this is an emergency."

With those words, Raoul left the dressing room, a hand pressed to his pounding head. He if there were no gendarmes in the Opera he would have to venture outside. With every second that passed, Christine's life could be put into more danger

At the end of a hall, the vicomte spied a man in a heavy cloak looking through what appeared to be a ring of keys. Perhaps he was a janitor or an officer himself. Raoul approached the man, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to actually see the stranger. It could be his attacker posing as another man. "Excuse me, sir," he said in his raspy voice. The stranger turned a little in his direction. "Do you happen to know where I can find a gendarme?"

"Is there a problem, monsieur?" was the reply. The voice was foreign, it had a strange lilt or a sort of accent to it that Raoul could not place.

"Yes. I was strangled in a dressing room down the hall and I have strong reason to believe that Christine Daae was abducted by my attacker while I lay unconscious. I am going to need assistance."

The man lifted his face a little more, catching the soft light cast by the lamps on the wall. Raoul saw pitted bronze skin, a full black mustache and black eyes staring at him from beneath an odd looking tasseled cap.

"Look no further, monsieur. My name is Nadir, I am a detective."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thank you for your feedback! This chapter has been edited slightly from the first version. **

* * *

Erik had taken her. There could be no other possibility. What Nadir had been dreading for months had finally taken place, and now a young woman's life could be in danger.

The wheels in his mind spun madly as he walked down the hall with the young viscount trailing behind him. This was the man he'd seen locked in a kiss with Christine Daae. He was the man Nadir had kept secret from Erik. Apparently, Erik had discovered their affair, seeing as the viscount had claimed he was attacked and strangled. Nadir could only thank Allah that he had not been killed outright.

"Did you see your attacker, monsieur?" Nadir asked the young man without turning. A small part of his mind hoped that the viscount would describe someone who could obviously not be Erik.

"He was in shadow and I could not see his face well, but he was very tall and wearing a large cloak," the viscount recalled, "and I could hear Christine screaming a name."

Nadir's heart skipped. "What did she say?"

"I believe she said "Erik."

The Persian's last hopes of his friend's innocence were crushed. There was no doubt Erik had done this. Sighing, Nadir stopped in his tracks and put his hand to his head for a moment to try and gather his thoughts. The blonde, blue-eyed man stared at him.

"What's the matter, monsieur?" he asked with genuine concern.

Nadir appreciated the man's worry. He looked up into the young, light eyes, and in a rare move, decided to trust him then and there.

"Monsieur, I'm going to tell you something very confidential. You must not repeat it to anyone. If you ignore my request then Mademoiselle Daae's life could be put into grave danger. Do you understand?"

He saw shock flash across the viscount's gaze, but the man nodded silently anyway, drawing close to hear the Persian's soft words.

Nadir spoke next to the viscount's ear. "I personally know the man you speak of. The name Christine cried belongs to him. I will confront him about her disappearance immediately, but in order to do that I must travel to his residence. You cannot follow me, as one of my duties is to protect this man. Nevertheless, I will do what it takes myself to ensure the young woman's safety, even if it means putting her life before his. Do you trust me?"

The viscount was clearly stunned by this massive amount of new information, judging by his wide eyes and his slightly open lips. Nadir could see a slowly settling suspicion in his gaze and began to regret speaking so much to the man so quickly.

"I wish to come with you," the young man said, his handsome brow gently creasing in a frown. "I believe it is absolutely necessary that I guarantee Christine's safety."

The Persian sighed again, tugging at his fingers. This was going to be slightly more difficult than he had anticipated. Of course the man would be hesitant to allow him to go off to find Christine alone, especially after he had admitting to knowing Erik. If he could only win his trust for this moment, he could go into the basements.

"Monsieur--"

"How do you know him?"

Nadir blinked at the suddenly bold man. "Excuse me?"

The viscount leaned forward, his hand on his chin, his blue eyes piercing and uncomfortably searching. "How do you know this man? Erik? Surely it is not easy to acquire a friend such as he?"

The Persian's face remained stony and unemotional. He needed to remain neutral at this point in time, until he could straighten these matters out. Now was not the time to delve into his relationship with Erik.

He stared hard into the viscount's eyes, determined to convey his sincerity to him. "Monsieur, I will tell you everything later. Right now, the priority here is your lover's life. I beg you to trust me to find her and, if I am able, to bring her back to you. At the moment, I am your only connection to her."

The young man opened his mouth as if to say something, but after a moment he slowly closed it, passing a hand over his head nervously. The Persian watched him bite his lips and tug on his crooked jacket. He could almost see the gears in his head turning at an aggressive pace.

"Very well. I shall wait for you."

Nadir bowed his head gratefully. "Thank you, monsieur vicomte. I promise I will find her. Please rest and recover from your attack, and when I have information, I will find you."

* * *

Reaching the edge of the lake some minutes later, Nadir was not surprised to see the dinghy gone, tethered to the other side. Erik had most certainly used it, perhaps to carry Mademoiselle Daae across the water. Nadir's heart grew cold when he wondered about her current state. He prayed to Allah Erik had not resorted to violent means with her, such as knocking her unconscious.

There were other ways to get into the house; one of the more well-hidden ones was right near his feet. Nadir bent down and opened a heavy stone trapdoor that he rarely used. He carefully stepped down inside the hole, placing his feet on the slippery wet rungs of a ladder and making his way slowly down.

This passage actually tunneled beneath the lake itself, and it was for that reason that Nadir almost never used this way to get into the house. The air was frigid and smelled moldy, and the ground beneath his feet was always moist and soft. However, he could afford to suffer a little for Mademoiselle Daae's safety.

After a few minutes of crouching and shuffling forward in the dark, Nadir's outstretched hand touched a cold doorknob. He turned it slowly and gently pushed the silent door open.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the warm light. He could see and hear no one as of yet. He crept inside noiselessly, ignoring the dirt he trailed on Erik's Persian rugs.

And then, he heard a woman's voice from a nearby room.

"Please, Erik, let me alone..."

Nadir's heart was gripped with terror. What was Erik doing to her?

Still silent, the Persian moved over to the ajar door from where the voice had come. He pushed it open very gently, fearing that it would bump into either Erik or Christine by mistake and reveal himself.

Instead, he was greeted by a shocking sight.

Christine was pushed against the wall by Erik's imposing body, but her arms were around him. One hand was even stroking his hair...and she was _smiling..._

"Maestro," Nadir heard her whisper.

She seemed to then fall into some sort of slumber or trance, because she lost her balance and Erik quickly supported her, drawing her up to his chest and half-carrying her over to the bed. He lay her down with such gentleness, and covered her up tenderly, tucking the comforter up beneath her chin. His hand passed over her face lightly, and his pale lips were lifted in a soft smile.

"Good night," he murmured quietly.

Nadir was horrified.

Erik was using his voice in ways he hadn't displayed since his days in Persia. It had been known widely in the Shah's palace that Erik possessed the voice of a wizard; that is, he could seduce and hypnotize both women and men with his supernatural singing voice. Nadir had witnessed it before. In fact, he himself had been hypnotized and it was truly frightening.

It was obvious that Erik had been granted an extraordinary talent by Allah, but he had misused his gift by using it to entrance Christine into showing him the affection he craved so badly. Nadir needed to stop him now before anything worse could happen.

He stepped back carefully when Erik rose from the bed. His friend brushed past him out of the room, still unaware of his presence, and he headed for the hearth. Nadir approached him quietly as Erik picked up the bottle of red wine off the mantle, along with a wine glass, and poured himself a drink.

As Erik lifted the glass to his lips, a floorboard creaked beneath Nadir's heel.

Nadir had no time to speak before Erik whirled around violently and drove a fist into Nadir's chest, sending him to the floor with a heavy thud. He only had a moment to cry out Erik's name, fearing that his friend would try to strangle him next.

Erik paused in a lunge forward, still crouched, red wine dripping from his hand and freshly staining his white shirt. He recognized Nadir's voice.

"You bastard!" he hissed, grabbing the Persian by the collar. "What the hell are you doing here? How long have you been here?"

Nadir stared defiantly into Erik's mask. "You've kidnapped Mademoiselle Daae."

Erik snorted and pushed Nadir away, straightening up and folding his arms. _"I've_ kidnapped her? Speak to that boy who was slobbering over her, trying to make _love to her._ I have brought her back to me."

"Fool," Nadir whispered, getting to his feet, his eyes never leaving Erik's face. "You know your accusation is not true. You attempted to kill that young man. Isn't that cruel to Christine?"

Erik grit his teeth and shifted his jaw. "She has come back to me."

"You brought her back by force."

This time, Nadir was ready for the fist that drove towards his stomach. He grabbed Erik's thin wrist and twisted it violently away, bringing a groan of pain from him. Nadir wrapped his arm around Erik's neck, but he left himself exposed and Erik used the opportunity to kick Nadir hard in the groin.

Sickening pain exploded in Nadir's abdomen. He crumpled to the floor, wheezing and groaning, and suddenly found Erik pinning him to the floor, his hand dangerously pressed to his neck.

_Click._

Nadir did not even realize he had pulled his revolver from beneath his tunic until he saw his thumb cocking the hammer and noticed the barrel pressed firmly against Erik's majestic throat. The instincts he'd picked up during his training in the police force were still finely tuned.

Erik had froze at the sensation of the cold steel against his neck. He did not need to touch it to know what it was. He seemed stunned at first, his mouth slightly ajar and his brow white. Nadir felt a pang of guilt in his heart, but he did not remove his finger from the trigger.

The barrel of the gun moved as Erik swallowed hard. "I see you're still quite the _daroga,_ Nadir," he said smoothly, hiding all trace of fear in his voice. "You have not allowed your reflexes to become rusty."

"Release her, Erik."

Silence.

"Oh, don't shoot him!"

Nadir turned to see a disheveled, terrified Christine standing in her bedroom doorway, her hand over her heart.


End file.
